


Good Company

by little_abyss, tsurai



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Fuck Marry Kill, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Multi, POV Alternating, PWP with plot, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Sibling Incest, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-06-26 18:05:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15668451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai
Summary: It was Isabela's idea. But even she didn't realise that playing this particular game would have these kinds of consequences.The crew plays a game early on in Act I and the resulting fallout changes the course of the rest of their lives.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP roleplay between little_abyss and tsurai that bloomed when tsurai asked: what if Hawke's crew was polyamorous and all totally into each other? Updates will be sporadic as this *is* a work in progress, and comments feed your authors hungry for validation.
> 
> This work can be considered tangentially related to the [Redthorne ‘verse](https://archiveofourown.org/series/578038) but acts as more of a spinoff than part of the series.

It starts, as most things do, with a lot of piss-poor alcohol and good company. Isabela leans back in her chair, feeling comfortably warm and floaty. She put her legs up on the table five minutes ago, and it's extremely gratifying to practically feel the way gazes slide up her boots, over the skin showing between the leather and the sparse coverage her tunic provides. She pretends to be intent on her cards, but out of the corner of her eye Isabela can see Merrill glance at her and away. Her ears have gone a light pink that makes the green of her markings stand out even more against her pale skin, and Isabela can’t fight the smirk that curls her lip when she notices just how studiously Anders also seems to be looking at his cards – but he doesn’t manage to cover the way he bites his lip.

It feels good, being appreciated. It’s true that Isabela seldom protests being looked at – with as much work as she puts into her appearance, she practically demands to be admired – but it’s different here, in this room with these people. If she were downstairs in the bar proper, Isabela wouldn’t have her feet up, wouldn’t be leaning back; the position too precarious, leaving her open to attack. Instead she’d probably unlace her shirt a little more, give the room a better view while keeping the ability to leap into action at any moment.

Not here, though. In Varric’s quarters with the door closed, the din of the bar is muffled and gives way to laughter, idle chatter, grand tales of the latest adventures in and around Kirkwall’s maze of alleys. Varric gestures expansively with one hand, the other with the cards kept close to his chest as he regales the table with one of Hawke’s latest escapades while said man rolls his eyes and continues drinking shitty ale. Carver sits quiet across from Hawke, his presence not-quite sullen as he seems to be ignoring everyone in the room. The room is warm, the liquor flowing, and even Anders and Fenris are sniping less than usual. _Lady Man-hands hasn’t called me a whore once tonight_ , she muses, knowing it’s likely because Isabela herself has been quiet instead of playing her usual game to see how far she can push the straight-laced guardswoman.

Truth told, she’s feeling more relaxed than usual tonight. Wicked Grace is slow, and while the thought of Koslun’s Tome is never far from her mind, Isabela can’t help letting the laid-back atmosphere soothe her a little. Here, at least, she is safe for the moment. Should anyone burst through the door demanding her head on a pike, there are at least three mages between her and the entryway powerful enough to blast the intruder to smithereens with raw magic, giving her time to get her feet on the ground. And that’s assuming Varric, Fenris, or even Aveline don’t get there first, their weapons never far out of reach at any time.

Isabela hums, watching as Fenris huffs in response to something Hawke says. He discards a card, lyrium-veined fingers graceful as he flicks it neatly onto the growing pile in the middle of the table. His hands are deft – strong enough to tear out a man’s heart even without the gauntlets, the one time their party was caught unaware – and she idly wonders what they’d feel like sliding up the skin of her thighs, or around her waist. It’s a nice thought, pleasant, and when she sees Anders glance at her again her thoughts turn in a new direction – to memories of the Pearl and electricity tricks that still give her something to think about when she gets time alone.

“See something you like?” she asks, teasing. Because of course he does, and no matter how much Anders flushes and sputters a quiet denial it won’t change the fact that he finds her attractive.

“Call!” Varric says then, and Isabela lays down a hand that’s suffered for her inattention: not the best when that honor goes to Varric, but not the worst either. “Looks like I win again! Hawke, if you keep letting me clean you out like this, there’s no way you’ll be able to afford the expedition.”

Hawke snorts. “A few silvers here or there isn’t going to hurt much.” It’s true, she knows, if only because she’s seen the mage drop a hundred silvers in Lirene’s deposit box when he thinks no one’s paying attention to him. A rogue, Hawke is not.

“Fine then. Another game, everyone?”

Isabela snorts in disagreement and when everyone turns to her, she pastes on a smile that can’t quite be labeled as anything but ‘sly’. “I’m getting bored of cards.”

“Got another game in mind then, Rivaini?” the dwarf asks, humoring her.

“Oh, another game?” Merrill perks up beside her immediately. “I wouldn’t say that Wicked Grace is _boring_ , of course, but I only know that and Diamondback which can be quite repetitive. What’s the game called?”

Isabela’s smile becomes a full-blown grin at that. “Ever heard of Fuck, Marry, Kill?”

* * *

 “ _What_ , Marry, Kill?” Aveline asks, aghast. Oh, this is a new low. She’s halfway to being quite drunk – alright, most of the way – but of course, what did she expect with Isabela here? She rolls her eyes. “Isabela, honestly, at least one of those things is illegal, and while I can see how you might be interested in the first one, I wouldn’t have thought the second was your speed.”

“So nice to have you back, big girl,” Isabela remarks snidely, looking at her fingernails.  “ _You_ don’t have to play, if you don’t want to.  I doubt it’s your sort of thing anyway.”

Aveline bristles.  “I’ll be the judge of that,” she says, lifting her chin.  “How do you play?”

“Easy,” Isabela says, looking up from her nails to smirk at Aveline, “You name the people in each of the categories – who you’d fuck, who you’d marry, and who you’d kill.” The smirk becomes wider, bolder, and Aveline narrows her eyes in suspicion.  Trust the slut to come up with a game like this. “Ridiculous,” she sneers, looking down at the tabletop – but not before her mind sends a wave of rather unhelpful imagery into her head. Luscious brown skin underneath her palm, expanse of wide hips and smooth curve of belly, all that lovely hair curled around her fist.  Aveline wrinkles her nose and swallows hard. “It’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. And I’ve known Hawke for a long time.”

“Hey!” Hawke grins, “I resemble that remark.”

“Ah, but we haven’t gotten to the true stupidity yet,” Isabela tells her, waggling her eyebrows at Aveline from across the table.  For a moment, Aveline feels like Isabela’s seen right into her mind, somehow knows the lurid fantasies she sometimes conjures, and she blushes before looking away.  “You can only choose from people in this room. Right here, right now. Of course, the fucking, marrying, or killing doesn’t have to take place right away but…” Aveline looks up in time to see Isabela shrug nonchalantly, glance at Merrill swiftly then away again, “Kitten _did_ say she was bored.”

“No, I didn’t!” Merrill trills, and Varric scoffs.

“Daisy’s right, she didn’t.  But I’m in,” he sighs, picking up his tankard and draining it. “What can it hurt, huh?”

“Yes!”  Hawke laughs, clapping Varric on the shoulder so hard the dwarf pitches forward slightly and almost chokes on his mouthful.  “Count me in.”

“What about you, boys?” Isabela asks. “And you, kitten?  Do you want to play?”

Merrill frowns slightly, then hiccups.  “I dunno, Isabela. I… I don’t want to kill anyone.  I’d marry all of you if I could!”

“Aww,” Isabela grins, throwing her arm around Merrill affectionately as Fenris rolls his eyes and Anders scoffs.  “A marriage made in the Void, I’m sure. Anyway, you can only have one. And you don’t have to _actually_ kill people, and it’s more… metaflorical.  Metapherical? Imaginary, anyway.”

“I will play,” Fenris tells the table quietly, and Anders narrows his eyes.

“Three guesses who’ll be your kill,” he says crossly, then looks at Isabela, “Me too.”

Carver sighs and takes a drink.  “I’ll sit this one out.”

“Ooh, don’t, Carver!” Merrill moans, sitting forward, her eyes wide. “You were going to be my ‘marry’!”

The table is suddenly silent, all eyes going to Carver, who turns beet-red.  “I… I was?” he asks, his tone utterly astonished, and Merrill nods happily. Then she frowns again, looking confused, and turns slightly to ask Isabela, “You can still have sex with them if you’re married, right?”

Aveline bites her lips together, trying not to laugh with the others but wishing, even as she does, that her own admissions could come so easily.  Carver looks at sea, staring at Merrill, then nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says as the loud laughter dies off, “yeah, alright then.”

“Subtle,” Hawke grins, raising his tankard at Carver, who scowls at him.  Hawke takes a swig and turns to her, his smile still clinging to his lips.  “What about you, Aveline? Are you in?”

Isabela clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes.  “As if,” she sighs, “Big girl’ll make whoever wants to fuck her get married first anyway.”

“Then it shows how much you know about me, Isabela,” Aveline sneers.  She looks at Hawke sternly, then nods. “I’m in.”

* * *

Over the laughter and a smattering of applause, Varric coughs, looking around the table.  “So?” he asks, an eyebrow raised, “Who’s gonna go first?”

Quiet then, everyone looking rather shiftily at each other.  Who would they choose? Varric narrows his eyes, studying each of the members of their little group in turn.  Isabela looks gleeful, sitting forward, eyes sliding from one face to the next. Merrill too – excited, thrilled to be part of the game.  Varric frowns slightly at her open expression, suddenly concerned that she may take it too much to heart. And what would happen between Fenris and Anders?  There was no love lost there, that was for sure. Would this game pluck at threads which were too tense not to snap under the strain? Would everything be lost against a single name at the wrong time?

Varric sighs.  Such was the nature of games.  In his experience every game was about more than the game itself – the establishment of boundaries, of a common goal, of putting someone else in their place.  Carver was easy to read; his crush on Merrill was almost the basis for a story in itself. Interesting to see that it may not have been as unrequited as Varric had previously assumed.  Aveline looked stern, but underneath that front, Varric was sure he could detect a longing, a hope that perhaps hadn’t been there before. Was he imagining it? He chuckles to himself and shrugs.  “Okay. If you lot are too chickenshit to put your money where your mouths are, I guess it’s gotta be me.”

He sits back in his chair, tenting his fingers thoughtfully, pretending not to look at the way they all lean forward, the way the room has become utterly silent, hanging on his every word.  “For fuck,” he says, and pauses, deliberately changing his expression to look as if he’s pondering, though he’s had his responses mapped out the moment Isabela suggested the game, “I guess… it would have to be… Junior.”

Carver coughs, choking on a mouthful of weak ale.  Fenris grins at Varric, one eyebrow raised and asks him, over the noise of Carver’s coughing and Merrill and Aveline thumping him on the back and asking if he’s alright. “That sounds quite the challenge, Varric.”

Varric chuckles again, glancing at Hawke, who is staring at his brother, mystified.  “Yeah, well. Junior seems like he’d be a bit more sensitive than this one. Maybe I’d get a nice dinner out of it or something.  Plus he seems a bit more housebroken.”

“Oh come _on!_ ” Hawke blusters, laughing over the continued coughing from Carver. “I haven’t pissed in the house in _ages_!”

“See what I mean?  Putting up with whatever he has the nerve to call _humour_ , even for a night, is a bit more than I can stomach,”  Varric laughs, and shoots a look at Carver, who is beginning to recover.  “Sorry Junior. If I’d’a known I’d have that effect on you…”

“You’d have to stop calling me _Junior_ ,” Carver rasps, holding his throat. “Who would you marry?”

Varric swallows, barely covering the sad little smirk which threatens to cross his features.  “Cover Bianca’s ears, would you?” he says, feeling that awful little twist inside himself, the one he’s dealt with, will _always_ deal with, Maker damn it, he won’t let it show.  Not now. “Marriage. Now that’s for the long haul.  I gotta say… out of all of you bastards… it’d be Aveline.”

“Me?” Aveline stares at him, for all intents and purposes, utterly aghast all over again.  “But I… I…” A rather pleased blush appears on her features, and he can’t help noticing she sits up a little straighter.  “But Varric, _why_?”

He shrugs.  “You’d get on my tits the least.  Plus I imagine you like a quiet life.”

She snorts and rolls her eyes.  “Well. Thanks, Varric.”

He laughs and asks her, “You didn’t think it was your personality, did you?”

Aveline sneers at him, and the others laugh.  “Varric’s got a thing for warriors,” Isabela smirked, waggling her eyebrows at Fenris. “You watch, _Broody_ , you’re up next.”

“I have given the dwarf no cause to wish me dead,” Fenris tells her, pouring more wine into his tankard and getting it into the vessel on his third go.  “I believe that honour would go to yourself.”

“Uh-uh, wrong there,” Varric smirked at her, and lifts his own tankard to toast Hawke.  “With the amount of money you’ve cost me so far, you’re the kill. Sorry, Hawke.”

“But _Varric_ ,” Hawke hiccups, waving his tankard, “I’m the fuckable Hawke.  I’m _intensely_ fuckable.”

“Yeah, but you’re not bankable,” Varric tells him, “I can kill you with kindness, if that makes it easier?”

“Still rather a fuck,” Hawke pouts, and Carver smirks at him.  Varric laughs again, and looks around at the others. “Who’s next?”

* * *

Hawke stops pouting and leans back in his chair, resisting the urge to stick his tongue out at the still-smirking Carver. He’s not well-known for his maturity, but that seems like it’d be going a tad too far. Still, despite the levity Varric is so good at creating, a tension hangs in the air. It’s subtle enough Hawke is surprised he even notices it, but the way everyone leans forward around the table sends a frisson of… something running up his spine. He glances around in the silent moment that follows Varric’s questions – grins a little when he notices both Carver and Aveline’s faces are still red, though from embarrassment or pleasure, he can’t be sure.

Hawke takes another sip of his ale and pushes down the nerves he won’t admit exist in the first place, ready to take the plunge.

Then Isabela laughs and pulls her feet off the table. “Everyone’s being so serious! Stop thinking so hard. This is a _game_ ,” she says, dropping her elbows on the table then leaning forward so her breasts push further up on top of her arms. Hawke only notices he’s staring and manages to tear his eyes away when Isabela grins and winks lasciviously in his direction. He grins, tipping his mug toward her. “Since you’re all so nervous, I’ll go next. For fuck… well, everyone here, obviously.”

Hawke snorts a laugh because he saw that one coming from a mile away, various sounds of amusement joining the chorus along with Aveline’s disgruntled, “Of course you would say that, whore.”

“I thought you said we could only pick one, though!” Merrill pipes in, her tone not quite a whine. “I already said I wanted to marry everyone.”

“Hmm, I did say that. Sorry, kitten,” Isabela murmurs, reaching over to pat Merrill’s arm. Then she turns a heavy-lidded gaze on Aveline. “‘Whore’ implies I’m getting paid for something I’d do for free, big girl.” She takes a breath, and Hawke makes the mistake of taking a sip of ale that he promptly chokes on. “My fuck is the Lady Aveline, here.”

“W-what?” Aveline stutters, but Hawke can barely hear her over his own ragged coughs and various sounds of shock from around the table. Her face goes a shade of red he hasn’t seen since Ferelden's last beet harvest. “What are you playing at-”

Isabela’s grin is one of nefarious delight now. “Just what I said. Someone needs to get that stick out of your arse – then maybe put it back in and wiggle it around if that’s your sort of thing-”

Fenris actually lets out a bark of laughter at that, drawing Hawke’s eye to the elf’s rare smile for a moment before his gaze is pulled back.

“Isabela!” Funnily enough, it’s Anders who calls protest, and Hawke is surprised to see the healer blushing ever so slightly and looking pointedly away from both women. “Perhaps we could move on to your marry?”

“What’s wrong, did I miss something dirty again?” Merrill asks, darting looks between Isabela and Anders.

Isabela leans back looking self-satisfied and lays a hand on Merrill’s arm again. “No worries, I’ll tell you later. And you’re my marry, kitten.” Her mouth twists on the word _marry_ , there and gone in a flash even as Merrill’s face lights up in delight. Hawke misses her next words, too busy twisting back to watch Carver’s reaction to the revelation. It’s always been easy to read him – that much hasn’t changed in the past year – and he sees Carver’s shock fade to a scowl before he visibly pauses and his mouth drops open into an ‘o’ shape as a flush steals across his face.

 _Three guesses what he’s thinking about_ , Hawke muses, barely refraining from snickering into his drink. _Didn’t know my baby brother was such a voyeur_.

“For kill,” Isabela announces, interrupting his thoughts, “Fenris.” Hawke turns to see Fenris raise his eyebrows and cross his arms expectantly. “Your eyes,” she coos, “would still make such a pretty necklace.”

Fenris’ face twists in a strange mix of amusement and disgust, but once again it’s Merrill who butts in. “That wouldn’t be very practical, Isabela. I mean, eyes rot so quickly, not to mention you’d have crows following you around. You would need a special preservation spell-”

“Please stop talking about this!” Aveline bursts out, holding up a hand in a warding gesture with revulsion written clear in her expression.

Hawke takes his chance, trying not to think too hard about disembodied green eyes. “I’ll go next.” Everyone at the table turns to him as one and he swallows, inexplicably nervous all over again. He tries to make a show of nonchalance, though, tapping a finger to his lips as he sweeps his gaze over the gathering. He’s thought about this before, Maker knows; even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself he’s not _quite_ oblivious enough to think the way he watches his companions’ hands or the way they move in battle is entirely platonic. The hardest part really stems from picking just one person. _This sucks_.

“Since I have to pick, my fuck is Anders.”

Anders blinks at him from across the table, his tankard halfway to his mouth.  Something shimmers very briefly in the air around him, a brilliant blue, and then it is gone and he’s putting it back down on the table, looking marginally stricken.  “Really?” he asks, “But… but, _why_?”

“An excellent question, mage,” Fenris growls quietly – so quietly that Hawke wonders if he’s heard that right.  He looks at Fenris, who is staring with angry intensity at the scarred tabletop, then when Fenris won’t meet his eyes, looks once again at Anders and shrugs.  “You’re a two-for,” he says, meaning only to lighten the mood of the situation, seeking only to stop this strange twist in his guts at how rueful Anders looks.  Is it because he doesn’t fancy Hawke? _Fuck_ , he thinks to himself, _you read that all wrong_.  He watches as Anders’ expression becomes more pained for half a moment, before a neutral mask descends over it.  

Then Anders smiles winningly, looking directly at him, and says, “Why don’t you yell it a bit louder next time? Who would you marry?”

“Oh, well, that’s easy… even if he does want to kill me,” Hawke winks at him, desperately hoping that Anders hasn’t been offended.  He grins at Varric and waggles his eyebrows. “That’s you, big boy.”

“Andraste’s freckled arse,” Varric groans theatrically. “I must be a masochist for this but… why?”

“I think you could keep me in the luxury to which I could easily become accustomed,” Hawke smirks, waving his hand around the shabby private room. “Plus, Mother seems to like you.   _Oooh, a renegade merchant prince!_ ” he coos in a falsetto, mimicking Leandra’s voice as he flutters his eyelashes and clasps his hands together.  

Carver laughs and shakes his head, then tells him, “You do that scarily well.”

“What can I say, it’s a gift.” Hawke shrugs, and Varric laughs.

“Maker save me,” he sighs, then asks, “Alright – who would you kill?”

“Okay, that really is a hard one.  I guess… probably… uh…” He taps his lips thoughtfully with one finger. This answer is actually the easiest of them all, but it’s funny to see everyone straighten in their chairs when he looks at them, visibly nervous again. “Isabela,” he pronounces, tipping his mug toward her.

“What!” Isabela sits up straight, mouth dropping open in shock that he thinks is only half-feigned.

“You ate the last of my sweet-rolls on Thursday,” Hawke says, voice as flat and disapproving as he can make it even as he fights a grin. Isabela’s put-upon expression makes that more difficult.

“You said I could have them,” she scoffs, crossing her arms.

“I said you could have _one_ , not three.” He rolls his eyes, still actually a little put out over it. The bag of treats he brought for the party going to the Wounded Coast had been enough for everyone, plus two to bring back to Mother and his brother. Carver had found his own odd job for the day and the rolls Hawke bought off the Fereldan vendor were a little luxury they didn’t often get; something of home. “Anyway, who’s next?” Hawke does let a smile break then. “Carver?”

* * *

Carver clenches his jaw, chances a look at his older brother, then stares back into the depths of his tankard.  Quietly, he clears his throat, then says, “Alright.”

Once more, everyone seems to go far too silent.  Why are they all so interested? He rubs the back of his neck, feeling sweaty and stupid, too bothered by the eyes suddenly on him to speak, though his mouth hangs open.  He frowns, and hears someone make an impatient clicking sound and a huff of breath. _Come on_ , he tells himself, _get it over with_.  

“‘Kay,” he mumbles, “I’d fuck Isabela.  I’d… uh, I’d marry Merrill.” Ah, Maker damn it, he can feel the heat creep up his neck, onto his face, and he prays that the lighting in here is gloomy enough that the rest of them don’t notice it.  “And I’d kill you.” He looks up quickly, into the face of his brother’s smirk, and huffs, still scowling. Then he mumbles, “No surprises there, I guess,” and looks back down into his drink.

He barely registers Isabela’s laughter and though he hears her say something, he’s not really concentrating on it.  There’s his brother’s voice, of course _he’d_ have something to say, and then everyone is laughing.  Of course. Laughing at him again. He knew Isabela’d be able to brush it off… though he almost hoped she wouldn’t.  Truth is, while she’s beautiful, Carver feels woefully inadequate to the task of bedding her. It’s not that she’s patronising to him – or, not just that she’s patronising to him – but that... well...  He’s only slept with two people at this point, not counting the blowjob that Robert gave him that one time in the barn, and he doesn’t think that that’s quite enough. Isabela seems like she’d… critique his performance too.  Carver sighs, knowing his ego isn’t ready to be savaged in that manner, and then jumps a little when he feels a hand on his arm.

Merrill smiles gently at him, then says loudly, loud enough for everyone to stop talking and look at her, “Oh, would you!  Because I’d marry you too! And I’d fuck Isabela – she’s _so_ beautiful, and I think she’s a lot more gentle that you’d give her credit for on a short acquaintance?  But maybe that’s just me. And she’s always been nice to me.”

“Ugh, kitten, don’t go shouting those things about me,” Isabela laughs, raising her tankard to her mouth.  “You know I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“And what a reputation it is,” Aveline says snidely as Varric laughs.  Hawke leans forward, grinning, and points at them – first Carver, then Merrill, then Isabela.

“So it seems we have what appears to be a marriage-with-benefits happening here.  You sly dogs, the lot of you! Did you arrange this?”

“What?  No!” Carver blusters, his face burning red again.  Isabela only scoffs.

“Like it was some incredibly convoluted way of announcing that Carver and Merrill fancy each other?” she asks, “Andraste’s Arse, man, like you’d need an announcement.  You only have to see the way they look at each other.”

“I’m right here,” Carver mumbles, and Merrill laughs and squeezes his arm.

“It’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” she asks, gazing rather happily around the table, “If we could all just… be happy together?  Because I mean, I really feel like… well, I love all of you. And you’re all _very_ attractive.  Even you Anders, though I hate to say it, you do smell a bit odd sometimes.  Not bad-odd! Just… well… sewer-odd.”

“She’s got a point, Blondie,” Varric mutters.

Anders rolls his eyes, glaring across the table at her. “Then don’t walk behind me.”

“Oh, I try not to,” Merrill says earnestly, and Fenris chokes on his wine.  Hawke claps him on the back and Fenris shrugs him off, rubbing at his mouth.  Aveline shakes her head, then looks at Merrill. “So? You’ve answered two of the three questions.  Who would you kill?”

“Oh.  Oh. No-one.”  Merrill blinks her huge eyes, then shakes her head rapidly, wrinkling her nose.  “No. I can’t. I _won’t_.  I…”

“It is not real,” Fenris growls.  “And why do you have such an issue with it, witch?  Are you not a blood mage?”

“Yes but _Fenris_ , please, I don’t _kill_ anyone.  Except people trying to hurt us.  Please. I…” Her voice has gone shrill, slightly desperate, and Carver looks at her, astonished.  Her eyes swim with tears, and Merrill looks in mute appeal at him. _She really doesn’t want to choose,_ he thinks, and his heart swells with feeling for her.  Slowly, he shifts, so that he might hold Merrill’s hand.  Gently, he squeezes it, then murmurs, “It is just a game. But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Merrill smiles at him, rather watery, then Anders huffs impatiently again.  “Just _choose_ ,” he tells her, “Come on, like he said, it’s just a game.  And it’s not like you don’t have blood on your hands, quite literally, anyway.  Don’t be such a-”

“It’s you,” she blurts, staring at Anders wide-eyed.  “It’s you, Anders, you’re my kill. You’re just… you always seem so unhappy, and you twist everything I say to make it seem so evil, and I know that that’s just because you don’t know anything about my magic, but you think you know _so much_ about magic, and you really don’t, but you won’t listen, you won’t listen to me or anyone so what’s the point?  I… I, please, I just… you make me so unhappy, and all I want is just to help, just like you but, but I can’t help you because you won’t let me… and I…”  Merrill’s bottom lip quivers and she tears her hand from Carver’s to cover her face as she breaks into loud sobs.

Carver looks up, meaning to glare at Anders, but is so astonished by his expression that in that instant he forgets his indignation.  Anders is looking at Merrill as she sits opposite him, crying into her hands, with an expression which is both horribly guilt-ridden and also incredibly sad.  His throat works as he swallows, and Carver watches as he pushes his virtually untouched ale away from himself. Slowly, Anders makes to rise, before Varric catches the sleeve of his robe, and when Anders looks at him, Varric shakes his head.  Anders’ mouth thins to a line, and he plops back down in his chair, waiting for Merrill’s tears to subside.

Eventually, they do.  Merrill sniffs and wipes her nose on her arm, and sighs.  “It’s alright, Isabela, thank you,” she murmurs when the other woman miraculously produces a small white handkerchief from nowhere, and smiles once more at Carver, putting her hand back into his.  His heart leaps at her touch; even if nothing more comes of it, to know that… to know that maybe, she feels the same is… intoxicating. He sighs happily, then remembers the awful moment of before and narrows his eyes at Anders.  

The whole room is now silent.  The wait seems interminable, until suddenly, Isabela asks Anders coldly, “Well?  Got anything to say?”

Anders purses his lips, clearly thinking, then opens his mouth to speak.  But before he can get a word out, Fenris’ lips curl into a sardonic half smile and he states, “I will go next.”

* * *

Fenris narrows his eyes.  “This is a game. It is not meant to be taken seriously – do not take it to heart.  Or if you find yourself offended by others’ choices, I would suggest that perhaps it is a problem with yourself, rather than with them.  So.” He clears his throat, some part of his mind barely able to believe he is saying this, “I would fuck Anders.”

The entire table seems to roar at once.  Isabela’s squeal of excitement is only overwhelmed by Varric’s triumphant boom that Hawke now owed him fifty silver, and Hawke’s resultant cry that it was worth it, Maker, worth every penny.  Carver laughs, one hand in his hair, his shock evident, and Merrill beams delightedly. Aveline only shakes her head, and Fenris chuckles as she looks at him over the rim of her tankard and winks.  Slyly, Fenris turns slightly to look at Anders himself; but his reaction is not what Fenris had expected at all. Instead of a smug look, Fenris sees only a troubled, thoughtful expression, and his heart sinks.   _Perhaps it was too soon_ , he considers, and mentally shrugs.  What’s said is said, and cannot be unsaid.  “Alright, alright,” he calls over the noise.  “I would marry Isabela.”

“Knew it,” Isabela crows, standing at one end of the table now, “Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen, right?  Always knew you were a sucker for a gal who thought your eyes were pretty enough for her necklace.”

“Assuredly,” Fenris snorts.  Honestly, the idea of marriage appalls him – from what he could see, it was yet another yoke, binding you to someone for life.  Unnatural. From what she has let slip – precious little, but it is there, couched in innuendo and bravada – Isabela feels the same way, and from the way that her mouth curls at the corner, he believes he made the right choice.   _Fool_ , he chastises himself, _it is only a game, remember?_

The laughter quiets, as the group anticipates his final choice.  Fenris shifts uncomfortably under their combined gaze – he knows he should have grown used to being stared at by now, but it never comes easy.  “I know that you all thought Anders would be my choice for this, as our enmity is vocal. And others have already been assured that the rules of the game only permit one category per choice.  So.” He tents his fingers, gazing around the table, trying to remind himself yet again that it is just a game, and wondering why he feels so guilty. “My choice for kill is Merrill.”

Once more the table erupts into dissonant noise – but this time it is fractious.  Carver and Isabela are once more the loudest, but this time even Varric gives voice to his disapproval.  Fenris looks at Merrill, who only smiles sadly and shakes her head. As the others turn to look at her, to gauge her reaction, her smile dies.  “On some level, I suppose I understand it,” she murmurs, and Fenris feels his throat constrict at her thoughtful tone, though his face, as always betrays nothing.  “I’d feel the same, if magic had taken my memories from me, shown me nothing but cruelty and pain. I’m more than my magic though. And…” She looks as if she will argue, just for a second, a brief glimmer of defiance flits over her features, and in that moment, Fenris feels his stomach tighten with fear, even as inexplicably, he feels rather proud of her.  And then the look vanishes, and once again she shakes her head, then falls silent.

Something of a pallor comes over the room at that, and Fenris looks around the room.  Hawke is looking pensive, stroking his bearded chin, staring at the tabletop. Carver is gripping the handle of his tankard as if he will pick it up – but the action never seems to eventuate.  Aveline is looking at Isabela, who is toying with her discarded cards while she, in turn, stares at Merrill’s profile. Fenris sighs internally and then looks at Varric, who stares back at him, a worried little smile in the corner of his mouth.  “Ah, Broody,” he says quietly, “It’s just a game, right? Then why does it feel so..?” He sighs aloud, and Fenris raises an eyebrow in acknowledgment, then picks up his tankard. After he has taken a mouthful which does not wash the unpleasant taste from his mouth, Fenris finally allows himself to look at Anders.  

“I believe it is your turn,” he says quietly, and Anders nods.

* * *

Anders can’t quite bring himself to look anyone in the eye for a long moment. He still feels...off-kilter. _Just a game_ , he tries to remind himself, but the words spoken to and about him by the people sitting at the table are shocking, each in their own way. Hawke’s choice was flattering enough to make his cheeks warm, but even if his reason was a joke it was still enough to make some strange amalgamation of discomfort, surprise, and fear settle in Anders’ gut. And Merrill – Maker, but he’d never… Truly, he’d never even considered his words had that much of an impact on her; she never seemed upset, letting everything he said roll off her back with the only retaliation a restatement of her own beliefs. Seeing her crying into her hands was enough to make guilt well up.

And Fenris. That was like being dunked in cold water – a shock to the system so startling even Justice took notice, stirring further in the back of his mind as Anders desperately tried to formulate some sort of thought or retort, anything to respond to the way Fenris looked at him, green eyes piercing.

Now, the air crackles with tension. He sucks in a breath and holds it, trying to center himself, to resettle to restless spirit under his skin. Anders sighs and looks up at the people who have become his companions and, at a stretch, could become his friends given the chance. They watch him intently, waiting on his part of the game or his response to what others have said.

“Fuck... I would fuck Isabela,” he says and the aforementioned woman grins and winks at him.

Aveline rolls her eyes, muttering something that sounds like “predictable” under her breath but Anders ignores it. His hands clasp tight over a mug of ale he’s hardly touched and his every nerve feels set alight with the strain not to give away the conflict brewing in his gut. “For marry, perhaps – Hawke, or Varric.”  
Carver snorts from that end of the table, making Merrill giggle. “Come on, you can only pick one of us, Blondie,” Varric reminds him, smirking when Anders turns to look.

“Hawke, then,” he manages not to bite out, then looks away when Hawke grins at him.

Several moments go by before Isabela throws a wooden spoon at him, startling Anders out of his concentration on the mug in his hands when it hits his arm. “Oi, still missing a kill! Who do you pick?”

Anders blinks. “Kill? Oh…” he trails off, nerves suddenly returning tenfold. His eyes flicker over to Fenris then away as soon as the man meets his gaze. Normally, there would be no question of the elf as his first pick, but… His hands start to hurt from how hard he grips the mug, even as his heart starts to speed. Something in him is unsettled – not just Justice, for all the spirit starts to spark as if upset by Anders’ utterance of the word _kill_ – and the feeling doesn’t abate when he looks up to see everyone watching him. Swallowing even as his breath hitches, Anders starts, “I, uh, I-” But he can’t. Can’t choose, not even in jest. It feels wrong, like he’d be taking something precious, delicate, and smashing it to smithereens. _No, I can’t._

The chair scrapes when he shoves it back, ale sloshing when he clumsily loosens his grip on the cup.

“I...I need to go,” Anders says, and flees.

* * *

“Well, shit,” Varric breathes, after the door has slammed behind Anders.  He shakes his head, and absentmindedly rubs his chest. “That was a bit more excitement than you had planned, huh, Rivaini?”

Isabela shrugs, looks at him from the corner of her eye and smiles.  It’s strained though, and eventually, she drops it. “Bloody sensitive bastards,” she mutters, then sighs.  “Look, if I’d have known everyone was going to take it so seriously, I’d have suggested we just get naked and fuck it out right here and now.  But no, you lot wanted _drama_.”

Aveline sneers as Isabela picks up her tankard.  “Fuck it out,” she mutters, her voice both revolted and resigned.  “Isabela, you knew what this would do. And I think…” She narrows her eyes and her nostrils flare a little, her mouth pulling down in the corners before she says, “And for what it’s worth, I think you were right.”

Isabela chokes on her drink.  She slams her tankard back down on the table, staring at Aveline, then says, “Are you shitting me, big girl?”

Aveline shakes her head.  “I don’t shit,” she says, then looks away as Hawke guffaws and Varric rubs his mouth, trying not to laugh.  “Idiots, you know what I mean. I’m not trying to kid you, Isabela. I really do think that you… might have helped things.  Sort of.” She gestures at Carver and Merrill, still holding hands. “Look at those two. Carver, as much as I like you, I don’t think you ever would have got the courage to even talk to Merrill without tonight.”  She smiles a little wistfully, and tells him, “I think it was really brave of you.”

Merrill looks at Carver and beams, and he smiles back, clears his throat.  “Yeah,” he says gruffly. “But I mean… there’s a lot of shit that can’t be taken back now too.”

Fenris grunts, glances at Merrill then away again quickly.  “Tell me about it,” Hawke says rather miserably. “Do you think Anders will ever come back? He looked really stressed out.”

Varric shrugs.  “Only one way to know,” he says, and raises his tankard.  “You gotta go talk to him.”

“Me?” Hawke blusters, and Carver laughs.

“You’re blushing!” he crows loudly, then laughs again.  “Maker’s Breath, you really are in love with him!”

“Fuck you,” Hawke glares, then grins, “Maybe I should have made _you_ my fuck, baby brother.”

“Ugh,” Carver wrinkles his nose as Isabela snorts with laughter.  “Fuck off.”

“Ooh, that’s the best you can come up with?   _Fuck off_.  Well, I’m well and truly told off now, aren’t I?  I’ll probably go cry myself to sleep after that…”

“Oh shut it, you two,” Aveline tells them, rubbing her temples.  She sighs. “It probably is a good idea to talk to Anders, Hawke.  And if anyone can do it, you can. You just seem to… get him, I don’t know.”  She blows out a long breath, glances at Isabela and shakes her head. “Right. Time to get home, I think.”

“I agree,” Fenris says, rising quite quickly considering the amount of drink he’s had, “Hawke, if you need me tomorrow, do not call until the afternoon.”

“Yeah,” Hawke agrees without seeming as if he’s listening, and rises as well, “You coming, Carv?”

“Alright,” Carver says reluctantly, and squeezes Merrill’s hand. “I can… walk you, if you want?”

“I’d love that,” Merrill says dreamily, and rises with him.  Varric raises one eyebrow at them and chuckles.

“You beautiful weirdos,” he tells them, and sighs, rubbing his stubbled cheek.  “Okay. Leave me with the tab again, you fuckin’ ingrates.”

Isabela gets to her feet and blows him a kiss, “You know I’m good for it, Varric,” she smiles and he laughs.  

“Yeah, I know.  Now get out of here.  I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells them, and one by one they take their leave, going out into the night once more.

* * *

Hawke walks with Carver and Merrill until the path splits between Darktown and the Alienage. It’s thankfully a quiet night, no gangs roaming the streets, which gives his brother plenty of time to make gooey eyes at Merrill on the way there. He watches them out of the corner of his eye, the part of his mind not occupied with worrying about Anders amused at the sight of their entwined hands and the shy smiles they exchange when they catch each other looking.

He half-expects to be a little jealous – he’s flirted with Merrill a little bit and finds her gorgeous in her own way, and he’s honest enough with himself to admit that a few of his fantasies over the past couple of months have included her, but…

But the envy doesn’t come. Carver is practically floating on air, his usual scowl nowhere in sight, and Merrill skips slightly as they walk, keeping up easily with their long human legs. It makes his heart squeeze and fill with warmth to witness this small snatch of uncomplicated happiness that Hawke decides not to examine too closely.

They reach the split in the road and he pauses to turn to them. “Don’t stay out too late, Carv. Wouldn’t want to have to tell Mother you’ve run off with an elven temptress and won’t be back anytime soon,” Hawke drawls, winking at Merrill.

“Brother!” Carver croaks, embarrassed all over again. Merrill giggles behind the hand not tucked in Carver’s, and even in the shitty nighttime light he can see them both blushing. He wants to tease them more, but Hawke is needed elsewhere and they’re all drunk enough the teasing has a good chance of turning into a brawl – not exactly ideal for Lowtown streets.

Instead he laughs and waves at them both. “See you at Gamlen’s.” Because that rat-infested shithole will never be home, not to either of them. “Get home safe,” he says to Merrill, then turns away with her goodbyes echoing off the surrounding buildings.

The lamp outside the clinic is dark when Hawke arrives. He only hesitates for a moment. The dark is good – Anders should be sleeping, but Hawke has learned enough about the man over the past few months to know that he won’t be. He knocks. No response. When he knocks again with no answer, Hawke tries the handle and is taken aback when it opens. _Shit, he always bars the door outside clinic hours._

The space is lit only by weak moonlight through slits near the ceiling and one flickering candle that’s blocked from sight by a slapdash wooden barrier, obviously intended to offer privacy to whoever shelters behind it.

“Anders?” he calls quietly, though not quietly enough. An indrawn breath and a sharp thunk meets his ears as the healer startles.

“Who’s there?” The words are a demand, but Anders’ voice sounds ragged.

“Me, uh, it’s Hawke.” He steps further into the room and lets the door close behind him. When nothing further comes from the corner, Hawke can’t help but stride over and peek around the makeshift wall. Anders looks up at him from his slump over something that can barely be called a cot, eyes wide and red-rimmed with both hands fisted in his hair. He looks like shit and it’s been less than an hour since Hawke last saw him.

“Damn, Anders, are you okay?”

The words are out of his mouth before he can think better of it. But of course he’s not okay — Hawke only has to look at him.

Anders stiffens and looks away, his hands falling from his hair to his lap, where they twist around each other in a death grip. “I...I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’m fine?”

Hawke shakes his head, but it has no impact when Anders won’t even glance in his direction. “No.” He chews the inside of his cheek, desperately fighting back his instinct to lighten the mood with some sort of joke or a pun. He’s pretty sure not taking this seriously will get him thrown out on his arse at this point, and then everyone else will yell at him later for it. Instead he moves closer, within touching distance, but doesn’t dare sit down beside Anders. The cot looks like it’s barely managing to support his weight as it is. “Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

A long moment of silence. The candle gutters in a breeze Hawke can’t feel.

“I know it’s supposed to just be a game,” Anders starts slowly, voice filled with a resignation that makes Hawke’s heart squeeze in his chest. “And it’s all well and good to talk about fucking and- and marrying. Maker knows that we all… that I’ve thought about it once or twice. But,” he ducks his head, staring at his own lap for a moment before speaking again, “but I’m a healer, Hawke. Throwing fireballs is all well and good, but I’m supposed to... care for people. And just the thought of you, of _any_ of you lying dead with your blood on my hands… It’s painful for me just to think about. For- for both of us, actually.” Anders lifts a hand, presses it to the center of his own chest, and Hawke doesn’t think he imagines the blue that crackles across his knuckles and disappears just as quickly. “And with Fenris. And Merrill. It was...too much.”

Hawke moves forward then, his next action is all instinct with no input from his brain as he reaches to gently tug Anders up and into a tight embrace. Anders makes a startled sound, stiffening as Hawke folds his arms around the man’s waist and bony shoulders. _Maker, but he’s thin_.

He can’t think of a thing to say, so he stays silent, waiting as Anders slowly starts to relax and bring his arms up to hug him back. A moment later Anders slumps a little, letting Hawke take his weight, and tucks his head into the crook of Hawke’s neck. Hawke has to fight to keep his breathing even, heart picking up speed as butterflies flit in his stomach. _This is_ not _the time_ , he tells himself, even as he grips a little tighter.

Eventually, Anders pulls away and Hawke lets him go, watching as he tries to surreptitiously scrub at his eyes. “Maker, but I’m a wreck,” he mutters, eyes not quite meeting Hawke’s when he looks up. “I suppose I should apologize for ruining everyone’s night tomorrow.”

Hawke snorts. “You’re a wreck, but you’re _our_ wreck. They’ll get over it. At least you didn’t pick Merrill as your kill.”

Anders grimaces in response, taking a moment to formulate a reply. “I’m glad I didn’t, considering the response. I don’t hate her, Hawke. She’s misguided, and I can’t help but wait for the day she accidentally summons a demon that’ll kill us all.” He pauses. “Never thought I’d be grateful for that wanker saying something before I did.”

“Well apparently ‘that wanker’ may or may not want to bend you over the nearest table. Something to think about next time you guys get into a screaming match, huh?” Hawke grins, then outright laughs when Anders begins to flush.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Isabela discuss the events of the game, and what the future may hold for the crew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No additional tags for this chapter, and it's from Varric's point of view.

The weeks roll by. Slowly, the date of the expedition to the Deep Roads rolls closer, and Varric tries, over and over again, to convince himself that he’s fine with this. He’s fine. But the thought of all that ground above him, no light for maybe weeks, their rations running shorter every day, the big, hollow sound of the abandoned tunnels – it turns his stomach, makes his blood run cold. It’s not the ‘spawn. It’s the loneliness down there. He stares up at the night sky, a vivid, deep blue up here almost at the summit of Sundermount, the brilliant light of the moons shining fitfully in-between the rolling cloud and sighs. Next to him, he hears a snort, and Isabela asks, “Copper for your thoughts? Only if they’re sexy.”

“Gimme a break, Rivaini,” Varric tells her without turning his gaze from the moons and stars. The ground is cold under his ass, and the log he leans against isn’t comfortable. But the strange comfort that Isabela offers, just sitting here with him, that is something. He smiles, wondering what it is that Isabela’s hiding behind all that front. Maybe Merrill was right about her, that night they’d played that stupid game – but kind doesn’t do too well in the pirate business, he’d wager. “Just thinkin’, that’s all.”

“You don’t want to do too much of that, Varric,” Isabela says smugly, pulling her whetstone out of her pack. She throws it up in the air, catches it, then pulls one of her daggers from its sheath. The deep quiet of the night pulls around them once more, broken only by the crackle of fire and the low murmur of voices from Hawke and Carver’s tent. Varric glances toward it, wondering what they’re talking about. The voices are too low for Varric to make out, and he shrugs slightly, looking away again. His smile grows a little as he remembers Carver’s face after he’d told him that he’d be his choice to fuck. The kid is cute, that’s for sure. And built big in every sense of the word, if Varric’s casual observations were correct. He snorts, clears his throat and asks, “Hey, Rivaini? Ask you somethin’?”

“Sure,” Isabela says distractedly, the scraping sound of her whetstone on the blade oddly soothing. “Ask away, Varric.”

“You think Junior’ll get it together with Daisy? And…” Varric listens very carefully for a shift in posture which might indicate something on Isabela’s behalf, “You think you’d be jealous if they did?”

Isabela laughs quietly. It’s not a sound he hears often, but he likes it. The sound of her honing her weapon pauses, and then she states, “No. I don’t do jealous. It’s a waste of time. As long as Merrill’s happy, that’s all I care about. Which is not to say I wouldn’t crush him like a bug if he didn’t treat her right.” Isabela pauses, then her tone changes, becomes lighter, “It’s  _ also  _ not to say that I would say no to getting in on a little bit of the action either. I mean, Hawke may have the Hawke Ass, but Carver clearly got compensation by way of a  _ huge _ cock. Have you seen that thing?”

Varric laughs and shakes his head, “Not in the flesh, so to speak. But I got eyes, and I’m good at imagining things.”

“Right. Here be dragons,” Isabela snickers, then pauses. “Hey,” she says cautiously, “You mind if I ask  _ you _ something?”

“You can ask,” Varric tells her, suddenly a little on edge. He sits up straighter, taking his hands from behind his head and turning so that his shoulder rests on the log behind him. Isabela is not looking at him, instead pretending to inspect the edge on her blade. Finally, she says, “I couldn’t help noticing you were nobody’s fuck. You know, in the game. How’d you feel about that?”

Varric exhales slowly, lifts his eyebrows as he considers. Honestly, he had barely noticed. He’s more than used to humans – and elves – ignoring him in favour of someone else. And really, does he want anyone else? He glances at Bianca, propped against the log within easy reach, and rubs his cheek with his hand, thinking about the best way to respond. “You know, it doesn’t bother me. Sure, it’d be nice to get an honourable mention. But… I don’t know. I’m not really… into it, I suppose. And I don’t want to be someone’s dwarven curiosity fuck.”

Isabela nods as if she understands, then looks a little puzzled. “You’re not… into it? Like..?”

Varric raises an eyebrow and smiles, “You know, Isabela, fucking isn’t everything. Sometimes it’s the least interesting thing about a person. You should try watching people sometimes. Now that… that is truly fascinating.”

She smirks and wipes the whetstone along her blade in a long motion, the hissing noise rising above the slow crackle of the fire. “Yeah,” she says slowly, “But imagine how  _ fascinating _ watching them fuck would be.”

“Way ahead of you,” Varric laughs, and Isabela’s eyebrows rise before she joins him. 

“Ooh, come on,” she jibes, “spill!”

Varric shakes his head, still laughing a little. “No one in particular,” he says. “Anyone. It’s interesting to me to wonder about how different people would go about it. Like, who’s the one who gets off on being kissed, who hates it? Who’s doin’ what to who. Whom. Whatever. How people would react to bein’ watched. I mean, I imagine you’d love it, fuckin’ big showpony that you are.”

“Depends on who’s doing the watching,” Isabela tells him, smirking, and nudges him with her elbow. “I wouldn’t object to you watching me fuck. Long as you tell me you’re going to do it first.”

“Well, you ever get in with Daisy and Junior, you let me know,” Varric tells her and yawns. “That’d be something to write about.”

“We should write it anyway,” Isabela muses, and Varric chuckles as he pushes himself up off the ground, for a moment at the same height as Isabela. He smiles at her gently, cups her cheek with his hand. It’s soft, warm and slightly downy, and she smiles at him. 

“Maybe we should,” he tells her, then winks. “I’m going to bed. Wake me up if anything exciting happens, alright?”

“You got it,” she tells him. He turns, picks up Bianca, and walks quickly toward the tent, looking up one last time at the sky before he goes. Yes, the Deep Roads sure won’t be pretty, but as long as he can remember the sky, he thinks he’ll be alright. For a few weeks, at least.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Deep Roads, the crew are tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merrill's POV, no additional tags

The Deep Roads are not cold like the caves she knows. The stones under her feet alternate between cool and nearly hot enough to burn, depending on how close they wander to the lava floes. That, paired with the way nothing grows here but deep mushrooms tucked away in corners, is enough to make Merrill feel worn down. She’s never gone so long without a hint of green. 

Varric walks slightly ahead of them, nose buried in the map as he tries to figure a route back through unfamiliar tunnels. He stopped muttering curses against his brother what feels like days ago, but it’s so hard to tell with the constant darkness. She can only measure time by the ache in her calves and the periodic stops to rest. Beside her, Hawke plods along, keeping pace behind Varric. As she watches Hawke unhooks the waterskin from his belt and takes a long swig followed by a small, wet sigh. He leaves the cork off and wordlessly passes it back to Fenris who takes it without speaking and drinks his fill. A moment later Merrill feels a nudge against her arm and turns to accept the vessel. She tries her best to smile at him in thanks, but it slips away before she can quite grasp the expression. Fenris doesn’t meet her gaze, though he looks just as exhausted as she feels, the bobbing magelight throwing shadows that deepen the bags beneath his eyes.

He is careful handing the waterskin to her, meticulous in keeping the gauntlets covered in gore and darkspawn blood from coming into contact with her skin. She tips the water to her lips and drinks until only the barest dregs are left. It’s gone unpleasantly warm and Merrill sighs, cupping her hand around the mouth of it and drawing the smallest amount of mana she can muster into an ice spell. The skin grows heavy in her hands as ice forms in the bottom, filling it until it stretches to the seams. 

It is strange to think, but she was never terribly good at elemental magic before coming to the Deep Roads. The fire and ice spells she did know were always simple, larger things like a fireball or Winter’s Grasp. Now she can conjure balls of ice into a space she can’t actually see without wasting a drop of mana. It’s perhaps the only good thing to come from this journey so far.

She hands the skin back to Hawke just as the silence is broken by Varric’s loud, violent cursing. In a flash they are all beside him, looking up to see what caused his outburst. Merrill can’t help the sad, frustrated sigh that escapes when she takes in the collapsed tunnel ahead.

“Another fucking dead end. Damn it, this was looking like a good route!” Varric hisses, pulling out a charcoal pencil to scribble something on his tattered map. 

Hawke steps next to him, leaning on his staff even as he reaches out to squeeze Varric’s shoulder. “There was a split in the tunnel a mile back. Let’s try that one.”

“And what will we do if that’s another dead end, Hawke? This map hasn’t been updated in decades, there’s no telling if half this shit is accurate anymore!” the dwarf mutters, throwing up his hands.

“Then we will simply backtrack further,” Fenris says, voice pitched low and assured enough to be soothing. 

_ How far? How long can we keep going? _ Merrill wonders, but doesn’t say. They’re all thinking of it, thinking of the dwindling supplies in their knapsacks, how they may have water on demand but soon they may have to resort to supplementing their supplies with deep mushrooms. She shudders, weary even of the thought of the cinders the mushrooms must be reduced to in order to nullify their toxins. Her feet ache from walking and her eyes hurt from straining to see through the dark beyond the circle of Hawke’s magelight. 

“I’m tired,” she says, leaning onto her staff just to take weight off her heels. “We’ve been walking for hours.” Three sets of eyes snap to her, assessing, but Merrill doesn’t say anything else. None of them will admit their weariness, so she has to do it for them.

Varric sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. “Alright, I’m with you, Daisy. Let’s rest a few hours and then get a move on. I’ll take watch.” 

“No, Varric. You took the last two watches,” Fenris says, frustration etching his tone. “I will take this one.” 

Merrill straightens, turning to him. “You need to let me look at your arm first.” She gestures at the scrap of black cloth torn from Fenris’ shirt and wound around his upper arm. “It needs to be cleaned, at least.”

“I’ll be fine, I need no help from you.” The protest is weary, rote by now, and he stiffens but notably doesn’t move away when she reaches to unwind the cloth. 

“Stop being stubborn and let me check it. You told Anders you’d protect us so we didn’t need a healer, but you can’t do that if you get an infection, can you?” 

And what a scene that’d been. They all knew of Anders’ reluctance to go back to the Deep Roads, how pale he went even at the mention of the place. It seemed overblown at the time but… well, they know better now. Still, she’d been surprised when Fenris stepped in over Anders’ half-hearted protests when Hawke said he’d be staying behind. 

“The caravan will be full of dwarven guards who’ve fought darkspawn before. If all else fails, I can protect them. We won’t need your  _ skills _ , mage,” Fenris had said. Even now the memory of Anders’ shock as he looked torn between relieved and insulted makes Merrill’s lips twitch in amusement. She pulls away from the thought and squints at the gash on the other elf’s arm. A twitch of her fingers calls another magelight into being, close enough to see the wound clearly. Fenris hisses when she prods it but doesn’t flinch from her fingers. She conjures a little ice to clean it as best she can, rubbing at crusted blood and who knows what else.

“Well, it doesn’t look infected. I don’t  _ think _ it looks infected.” She sighs. “I wish you’d take a potion now. It won’t help after infection sets in.” They have two healing potions and tiny bundle of elfroot left between the four of them.

“No, save it,” Fenris replies, insistent that something so minor doesn’t need a potion wasted on it. They are still days away from the exit at best, and who knows what obstacles and possible injuries lie ahead. This argument is worn thin already, and much as she worries Merrill can’t – won’t – force him to do something he doesn’t want to. Instead she sighs and picks up the cloth again. It’s filthy enough she wrinkles her nose and discards it, flipping up the bottom of her own tunic. With her knife, she carefully slices a hole in the inner layer then rips outward in one long strip. 

Fenris starts at the noise, turning to her, and Hawke’s magelight flares when he steps to her side. “What are you doing?” Fenris asks, eyes darting between Hawke and new strip of cloth in her hands. 

“That one was filthy, and the rest of your shirt is just as bad,” she mumbles, already concentrating on wrapping up the gash. “There, much better.” Merrill looks up to see both men staring at her and blinks. “What?” she asks, touching her cheek. “Something on my face? Besides the  _ vallaslin _ , I mean.”

Hawke smiles wanly at that and shakes his head. “A bit of blood, but that can’t be helped. Come on, let’s get some shut-eye.”

He leads them to a corner where Varric already sits, propped against part of the wall clear of rubble. His eyes are closed, but the furrow of his brow and the way his hands clench around Bianca in his lap tells her he isn’t sleeping yet. Hawke and Merrill prop their staffs against the wall, Hawke sliding down next to Varric and Merrill on his other side. Fenris perches nearby on a small chunk of debris, already looking out past their ring of light with a forced alertness that makes her ache to see. 

Tentatively, Merrill slides down and pillows her head in Hawke’s lap, as has been her habit the last few times they took a break. Hawke sighs and rests a hand on her head, stroking her hair a little before settling. Beside her she hears Varric huff and the slight shift as he, too, leans against Hawke’s shoulder. For long minutes there is only the sound of their breathing, the far-off drip of water leaking from the ceiling somewhere. Hawke’s magelight dims and winks out as he drops off. Fenris doesn’t so much as twitch in her peripheral vision, used to the encroaching, ever-present dark by now. 

Merrill’s light dims too, but she doesn’t let it go out yet. She wants to hold on to its glimmer for just a little bit longer. 

_ Creators _ , but she misses Carver. She almost wishes he was here, but more than that she’s glad he’s not being subjected to this. The same with Isabela. And Aveline. She even misses Kirkwall, as unfathomable as that is. She misses the smell of shit and metal foundries, the weak sunlight dappling through the branches of the  _ vhenadahl _ . She misses her tiny home in the Alienage and the Hanged Man’s terrible ale. She misses a world that isn’t defined entirely by darkness and the overwhelming stench of the Taint.

Her eyes fall closed and her next exhale is a long, silent breath almost edging on a sob. She lets the magelight fade out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver needs to do something to care for his family with Hawke gone, and Isabela is there to listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isabela POV, contains explicit Carver/Isabela and feels

“Hey,” Carver says, sounding reluctant, “You got a second?”

Isabela turns slightly to look at him, and nods. She’d known he was there for quite a while before he’d approached – it’s more than her life is worth to drop her guard in such a public location. But everyone needs their space sometimes, and Carver seems to need it more than most. Isabela arches an eyebrow and asks, “What’s up?”

Carver scowls, still gripping the handle of the tankard he’s bought over with him. He waves Corff away when the bartender approaches, licks his lip and bites it, then tells Isabela, “I’m going to the Gallows tomorrow.”

There’s a flicker of uncertainty for a moment, then Isabela remembers that Hawke is the mage, not Carver. Her eyes narrow as she realises what this means. “Alright,” she says slowly, “What’s that to do with me?”

A tiny shake of his head, and Carver’s knuckles go white on the handle for a second. “Nothing,” he mutters, “I just… ah, forget it.”

Isabela takes a deep breath. Carver’s face in profile in the dingy light of the Hanged Man looks terribly young – more than that, he looks terribly lonely. _Curse this bleeding heart_ , she thinks to herself, then tells him, “So you’re going to the Templars.” She sniffs, looks away, “Didn’t realise you hated Hawke that much. Or Merrill.”

A sharp intake of breath from beside her and Carver says, “I don’t. I _don’t._ I don’t hate them. Either of them. I… yeah, okay, my brother can be a pain in the arse. But… we talked about it. Before they left. That night up on Sundermount. And… I mean, he’s… not fond of the idea or anything but… he understands. Kind of. I think.” Silence for a moment, then, “And… Merrill. Merrill.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath and looks into his drink, obviously struggling. Isabela waits, and finally Carver tells her, “I… I just want… She doesn’t need me, I know that. But I need _someone_ to need me.” He looks at her and says, “I can be good at it, I know I can. And if it means I can protect someone… someone like my sister, I…” Isabela looks at him slowly, just from the corner of her eye, this sad, lost, lonely boy. Carver knuckles one eye and sniffs, then looks at her, rather fiercely. “And… I have to do something to get out of his shadow. I have to, otherwise… I’ll go bonkers.” He sighs and tries to smile, “But I can get out, visit her, visit you lot. And… and maybe one day… well. Templars can marry. Sometimes.”

“Not elven apostates, they can’t,” Isabela counters. They stare at each other for a short while, then Isabela looks away. “There’s gotta be something else. Have you spoken to Aveline? Or, I mean, you two used to be mercenaries, didn’t you? What about that?”

Carver shakes his head. “Aveline can’t. Says she can’t fill the Kirkwall guard with Fereldans, that it’s _not a good look_ .” He mimics her voice in such a vicious fashion that it makes Isabela smirk for a moment, “And Meeran’s gone to ground. He never liked me much anyway. I did _try_ Isabela. There just… there isn’t much. There’s too many other people looking for work as well – and Kirkwallers won’t hire me. I tried.”

Isabela raises one eyebrow briefly and shakes her head, staring back down into her tankard. “So,” she asks, then looks back up at Carver. “What do you want from me, then?”

Carver swallows. He doesn’t say anything, but Isabela knows the flush which creeps up his neck, the way he instantly drops his eyes to her bosom and back to her face. Then Carver looks at his drink again and shakes his head. “I just… I thought… maybe… I mean… Ah, forget it. Nothing,” he says softly, so softly she can barely hear him. “Nothing. Sorry.”

Isabela narrows her eyes a little. _Any port in a storm?_ she wonders briefly, thinking of Merrill, wondering how she is, what she’d say about this, if Carver would be asking her this if she were here, if Carver would be throwing his life away in this manner if she was. _You got a lot to answer for, dwarf_ , she thinks bitterly, then lays her hand on Carver’s arm and leans close. “Hey, Carver? If you don’t ask for what you want, you’ll never get it. So? Got anything you want to ask for? Last chance, you know.”

“Alright,” Carver says, and frowns. There’s a long silence between them – so long that Isabela is convinced he’s lost his nerve and is about to pull back. But just when she goes to do it, Carver’s hand falls over her own and he asks, “You know somewhere we could go?”

Isabela smiles. “Do I ever,” she says, and rises.

* * *

 “Slow down,” Isabela laughs, one boot hanging half off her foot, Carver kneeling between her legs, fumbling at her smalls, his breath already hot on her. “At least get your pants off.”

Carver grunts, pushes her smalls to one side and _oh_ , that feels good. His mouth, warm and wet and eager, is on her, licking in small, short strokes over her clit. It’s not exactly well-practiced, but it _is_ enthusiastic, and if Isabela had her way, she’d take a keen young colt like Carver over a stallion who thought he knew best any day. She takes a short breath in, laughs it out, then puts a hand on the back of his head when he tries to move away. “It’s good,” she coos. “That’s good, Carver.”  

That seems to reassure him, and he settles back down. Maker’s _Balls_ , but he has a knack for this. Isabela rocks her ass back on her little berth, here in the back of the Hanged Man, opening her legs wider around Carver. “Uh,” she pants a little, undoing the laces on her jerkin to shuck the top part off, freeing her breasts. “Up a bit. Yeah, that’s… _fuck_ , that’s it. Use your hands if you want.”

She feels the fingers holding her smalls aside loosen their hold on the cotton a little, then one strokes a long, firm line down, right between the folds, down to her cunt. It circles the entrance, moving lazily, until Isabela can’t help it, she’s moving her hips in slow, undulating circles. “Okay,” she tells Carver breathlessly, “you can fuck me now.”

Carver shakes his head, not raising his face from between her legs. Isabela snorts a short laugh, then says, “C’mon. C’mon, Carver. I’m not pissing around.”

Slowly, slowly, that finger keeps circling. Carver’s tongue teases her gently at one moment, then the next laves right across her, the entire breadth of his tongue pressed against her, slightly rough, utterly pleasurable. “ _Fuck_ ,” Isabela gasps, pinching one exposed nipple between her short nails, then pulling gently on the ring through it. “Carver. Fuck me. Last chance, otherwise I walk.”

_Really_? she asks herself, but control is control, and if you don’t take it back, then it usually stays in one place. The threat has the desired effect – Carver’s mouth is instantly off her, and he looks up her body, blinking shyly. “You sure?” he asks, his voice rough.

“Yes,” she tells him firmly, and Carver smiles quickly as she squirms back on the narrow berth, enough to put her back to the wall with her legs open, knees bent and feet on the bed. Carver gets up, moving quickly, tugging open his pants and gripping his cock, moving his fist up and down the length of it. Isabela smirks, raises one eyebrow and tears her eyes away from it to tell him, “Well, well. We have been hiding our light under a bushel.”

She sees his expression falter and chuckles. “It was a compliment, Carver. You’ve got a good-looking dick.”

He snorts, looking astonished and very, very pleased. Before he has too much time to preen, Isabela beckons to him, still smirking. But as Carver kneels on the bed, one hand on his cock and the other reaching out for her, his lips already pursed, Isabela turns her head. “Don’t kiss me, alright?”

“Oh, uh... yes. Yeah,” Carver breathes, and stops still. Isabela frowns for a second, and looks at him slowly, turning her head until they are face-to-face.

“Everything alright?” she asks, and Carver bites his lip and nods, but does not move.

“You can put it in,” Isabela tells him, her tone almost bordering on sarcastic; then she blinks, looks properly at the expression on his face and frowns in confusion. The light in here is almost non-existent, the smell of fish and shit and old ale everywhere, but even in all of that, Carver looks… well, he looks terrified. “Carver,” Isabela asks, her tone soft, almost gentle, “have you done this before?”

“Yes,” he replies immediately, and sniffs. His tone is belligerent enough to make Isabela want to laugh, but she wisely holds it in. _Nothing more fragile than the male sexual ego_ , she reminds herself. He takes a short breath, works his hand along his length one more time, then looks at Isabela. “You ready?”

She only nods, still puzzling over what his expression might mean. Carver does not look at her, instead concentrating as he slides his cock into her; just the head, working it back and forth in a slow, steady rhythm. He keeps that rhythm, pauses slightly to look at her, and asks, “Alright?”

“Mmn-hmm,” Isabela agrees, arching her hips up, allowing him to move more freely. She reaches both hands up, fondling her breasts, pushing them together and up, closer to his face as he moves above her. He looks at her quickly, frowning, and she murmurs, “More. Give me more, Carver.”

“Say please,” he grunts, his mouth hanging open a little; but he does not wait for her response. Instead he works deeper, his thrusts lengthening; she can feel the strain of his muscles, the large ones in his thighs moving with the motion of his body, his arms taut. Taking hold of the rings in her nipples once more, she pulls at them gently as she watches him thrust. From this angle, she can see his cock as it moves back and forth within her – sees it leave her body shining with slick in the low light, see the veins, the stretched skin, the deep pink of her cunt around him.

She grins and sighs, her own hips moving now in a complementary rhythm to his, and tells him, “No. Give me more. Fuck me, Carver.”

He gasps and does as she bids him, harder than before, his thrusts at first long, slow gliding movements, then changing quickly to shorter, more rapid shifts of his hips. His hair hangs in his face; she sees that his eyes are screwed shut tightly, an expression of concern on his face. Minutes slide by – Isabela closes her own eyes, feels her mind centre on that deep, unyielding build of pleasure within her body, the force that Carver is exerting, the small gasping noises he makes. She’s getting closer, Maker, it is good, he’s sloppy with his rhythm, but it’s kind of… _nice_ , in a strange way. He thrusts all the way in, going slower now, those long, languid strokes are back, and she hitches a breath at the sensation, the way it seems to strike something within her. “Carver,” she gasps, and he stops quite suddenly.

“You alright?” he asks her, and she moans.

“Yes, yes,” Isabela tells him, hooking her legs around his hips and thrusting up onto him. He laughs a little, shifts so that his weight is a little more balanced, and begins to move again. Maker, it feels interminable, and all of a sudden, Isabela can’t stand it. “Fuck me,” she whispers harshly, thrusting her hips up roughly again. “I’m… fuck, I’m not delicate, fuck me Carver.”

“A-alright,” he grunts, and quickens his pace. Soon enough he is slamming his hips into her, so hard she can feel it in the pit of her stomach – not pain, not exactly, something like it but more deeply satisfying, more unbridled and raw – and she laughs. “Yeah,” she moans, moving her head so that the back of it rests against the wall, feeling the audible _thump-thump-thump_ of the bed against the wall vibrating through it. “Yeah, oh, yeah, Carver.”

He pants above her, and something in his motion shifts – she can tell he isn’t far off coming. Pulling at the rings in her nipples one last time, she then moves both hands down her body. The fingers of one hand go to her clit, where they circle and tease, flicking the hard bud with the edge of her nail, squeezing and pinching and stroking. The other wraps around Carver’s cock, the slick of her own body wet against her palm. He gasps, moans and tells her, “‘Bela, fuck…”

“Yeah, come on then,” she goads him, sounding breathless. “Come on and come for me. Come on, come on.” It’s just sounds to him now, she knows it – that’s how it feels to her too. She’s close, oh, _so_ close, she can feel it, it’s… it’s right there and… and she…

 

Isabela moans, long and loud, and seconds afterward, Carver gasps and shudders, falling forward slightly. They stay like that, panting for a few minutes, before Carver clears his throat and shifts slightly.

Isabela looks at him, frowning a little. He looks… distant. Not distant in the way that she’s gotten to expect, to welcome even – he looks dazed, and a little sad. _Oh no_ , she thinks, suddenly appalled, _don’t tell me you love me, Carver. Don’t be an idiot_. Isabela draws breath, meaning to tell him exactly that, when Carver says softly, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Isabela snaps, the apology taking her by surprise. She blinks, frowns at her own tone, and tells him more softly, “That was good for me. It was good for you too, by all accounts. So what are you apologising for?”

When he looks up and shifts again, then drops his eyes to his cock as he takes it by the base and begins to withdraw, just in that instant of contact, she knows. Merrill. Isabela takes a breath and exhales quickly out her nose in a huff. As Carver pulls out, hitching his trousers up, using the end of his tunic to wipe himself off, Isabela only looks at him. She knows that he may read her expression as contempt, but that’s not what’s in her heart. No – in her heart is sadness, and confusion, and rue. Is she sorry this happened? Not at all. Sex is just sex. But if Carver’s going to feel bad about it, it will make Merrill feel bad about it, and Isabela doesn’t want that. She takes a deep breath in and tells him, “Hey. Sit down.”

“No,” Carver mutters hoarsely, “I’ve got to…”

“Carver,” Isabela tells him warningly, “sit.”

He scowls, then sits like a chastised puppy, perching on the edge of the berth. Isabela wiggles to the edge as well, shifting her tunic back down, pushing her breasts back into the bodice. “Look,” she tells him, “tomorrow, everything changes. Things aren’t going to be the same after you walk up that hill anyway, so why not enjoy a little fun now, huh? Don’t feel bad about the future. It hasn’t happened yet. And you may find that Merrill is more understanding than you might think.”

He gives a start at her name, and Isabela smirks. “You like her a lot,” she smiles, “And she likes you. And we had fun – didn’t we?” He nods, and she continues, “Okay. Good. Then that’s all that matters.”

“But…” Carver begins, and Isabela waves him to silence before rising. She turns slightly, holding out her hand to him, hauls him up off her berth when he takes it.

“Carver,” she tells him, “Don’t worry so much. The future will take care of itself. Now I’ve got things to do – I guess you’re out of the card game tonight?”

He nods again, miserable, guilty and Isabela shrugs. “Want me to tell the others what’s going on, where you’re off to?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “Alright, fine,” she sighs, and opens the door. The stench of the place assails her, and she smirks. “I’ll see you around then.”

Isabela takes a step away from him, then turns around and smiles, putting a gentle hand to his cheek. “C’mon,” she says, raising an eyebrow and shaking her head. “I’ll have a quick drink with you. Then I really do have to go.”

“Okay,” Carver sighs, then smiles. “Thanks, Isabela.”

“No trouble,” she tells him, then winks. “Anytime.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders waits nervously for the return of those who went on the Expedition to the Deep Roads. He is not disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders POV, no tags

He can’t sleep. If Anders is honest with himself, he hasn’t been able to sleep for weeks now. Instead he devotes his time to cleaning and stocking the clinic, and starting the outline for what may one day become his manifesto on the rights of mages. As it stands, it’s little more than several curls of parchment now, spread over a pitted and rickety table serving as a makeshift desk. The stub of his remaining candle gutters and Anders groans, trying to suppress the headache that has a vice-grip on his temples. Exhaustion weighs through every limb, but it is easy to ignore in the face of his potent, bone-aching grief.

 _Bartrand is a liar, you saw his face – no man should be that gleeful after supposedly losing his own brother. They can’t be dead._ He doesn’t want to believe it, he _can’t_ believe it.

And yet, it’s been months. While he can accept that Fenris and Merrill are capable of picking up and never returning for their own reasons, he can’t say the same of Hawke or Varric. Unlike the rest of them, Varric has ties to this city and considers it home in a way that’s easy to discern even if Anders can’t understand it. And Hawke… he has his family here, and Anders has learned enough about the man to know he’d never abandon them, not for all the gold in Thedas, not even when it seems his brother’s turned traitor and run off to the Templars’ open arms.

So no, they wouldn’t – couldn’t – possibly stay away. Not unless they have no other choice. Not unless they’re weeks dead and their corpses dragged into forgotten passages to be devoured by darkspawn.

Anders shudders, pushing the thought away as hard as he can. It does no good to anyone to linger on such painful images. He needs to take his mind off it – off them – and write more, or sleep. Maker, but he’s exhausted-

He’s broken from his thoughts by the sharp, rapid crashes of an iron-clad fist against the door and jumps, cursing when his hand brushes the tiny inkpot and sends it splattering all over his parchments but he can’t bring himself to pay much mind, not when someone presumably clad in armor has shown up at his door in the middle of the knight. _Templars,_ a voice that could be his or Justice’s hisses in the back of his mind. _Or the Guard_ , he tries to reason with himself. _Aveline might have some news-_ The knocks come again, more frantic this time.

“The clinic is closed!” he calls, standing slowly to reach for his staff. Abruptly, the knocking stops.

The voice that drifts through the wood sends recognition jangling through him such that his heart practically stops, too. “Mage, open this door before I break it down.”

“Fenris?” The word escapes him in a too-quiet gasp but he’s already sprinting toward the entrance through the deluge of _if Fenris then Hawke and Varric and Merrill oh Maker-_

He rips the bar away from the door and throws it open. And gasps. His knees go weak as he takes in their faces, Varric and Merrill leaning into each other, Fenris’ arm slung over Hawke’s shoulders and it’s all Anders can do not to cry out.

“You’re _alive_ ,” he croaks, then taking in the blackened clothes, blood and bruises, “and you’re injured. Get in here!” He throws the door open wide, stepping aside, his eyes flicking over them as they slowly limp by to the closest available cots. He sends up a magelight and turns to gather bandages and potions, anything to help. “Take off your clothes, all of you. I’ll need to assess your injuries,” he says, pushing past shock and exhaustion into a mindset that allows him to triage the situation. _They’re all conscious, no one’s holding in their guts. Merrill and Varric limping. Fenris can’t support his own weight, broken foot-?_

He’s interrupted by Hawke’s hoarse laugh as he helps Fenris sink into a cot. “Hello to you too, Anders. We’re not even back for a minute and you’re telling us to strip? You really did miss us.”

That stops Anders cold, his knuckles whitening around the handle of a pot of water as he straightens. “Don’t. I thought – we all thought you were dead, Hawke.” He looks at the man, then runs his gaze over the others, drinking in the sight of their wan faces and tired eyes. “Andraste’s ass. Bartrand came back last month and told us you died in a tunnel collapse. No one was willing to go back to collect your bodies, so we only had his word to go on.” He slams the pot on a table next to Merrill’s cot. “I haven’t seen Isabela for weeks, Aveline only sends word every few days, and your brother’s gone and fucked off to the _Templars_ ,” he spits the last word, and if Justice echoes in his voice he can’t bring himself to care at the moment. “We’ve been grieving for weeks, so forgive me if I’m not in the mood for jokes at the moment. Now shut up, take off your bloody clothes, and let me heal you!”

There’s a moment of ringing silence before something cold touches his hand and he startles, turning to see Merrill peering up at him, her hand clasped around his fingers. “You were worried about us?”

Anger sparks in his chest and he snatches his hand away, practically hissing. “Of course I was worried! We all were!” He stops then as her face crumples with hurt, takes a breath as her words from months ago come flooding back. “I- sorry, Merrill,” he murmurs, tentatively reaching out to touch her shoulder and squeezing lightly when she doesn’t shrug him off. She smiles slowly back at him, pretty despite her ragged edges. Anders coughs and shakes his head.

“Now, who’s the worst off?” he asks, desperate to change the subject, and is unsurprised when three hands rise simultaneously to point to Fenris. The elf scowls and crosses his arms, but doesn’t protest.

Anders sighs. “Alright, well if you’ll all undress I can get you some trousers and such from the donations box, and have a runner fetch replacements in the morning. Hop to it.” He turns away, busying his hands as the everyone starts to disrobe. Now that the shock’s worn off, all Anders can focus on is that thrum of utter overjoyed relief in his chest that sings _they’re alive, they’re alive!_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things seem to return to normalcy after the Deep Roads Expedition. But Isabela has something she needs to tell Merrill; Merrill doesn't take it the way that anyone expects her to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merrill POV, Isabela/Merrill, previous Carver/Isabela. Chapter tags: previous relationships, dirty talk, pining, pre-relationship, implied sexual content, explicit sexual content

_ If I can get… is it the ace of sevens? Oh dear… maybe it’s the Angel?  _ Merrill stares at her cards, utterly at sea. She feels eyes on her, and looks up – but it’s only Isabela, looking at her from across the table. “Oh,” she says, grinning in concern, “Did I miss something?”

Isabela says nothing. She looks… different, somehow. For a while, Merrill looks at Isabela’s face, in profile now as she looks toward the wall where Hawke sits, silently studying his own cards. No. There’s something wrong here, there’s definitely something she’s not getting, so Merrill bites her lip, then asks, “Isabela? Are you..?”

Isabela shifts uncomfortably in her seat, looks directly at her, then says, “Carver and I fucked. Before he left. While you were away.”

Merrill smiles at her, even as she hears Aveline suck in a breath and Varric give a low whistle. “Isabela,” Hawke says, sounding astonished, almost as if he is beginning to be angry, and Anders gives a choked laugh. Only Fenris is silent. Merrill looks at him, wondering if maybe he’s gone to sleep – he has seemed so tired, ever since they got back from the Deep Roads more than a month ago now, like he’s been staying up too late or having bad dreams, goodness, well, that wouldn’t be a surprise, the things they saw down there would give  _ anyone _ bad dreams – and sees him looking at her, almost studying her, really. She looks at him in confusion, then blinks, surveying the rest of the table, who are now staring at her. Why are they all looking at her like that? Hawke looks  _ furious _ , his mouth opening and shutting like that, and Aveline doesn’t look much better. Merrill wonders if her mother never told her that if the wind changed her face might stay that way, but then again, maybe not. Maybe they don’t have that story in Fereldan – maybe humans don’t tell it. She bites her lip, feeling worried, then remembers Isabela’s words and smiles, turning a little in her seat so that she can look at her properly. Merrill cocks her head, waiting, sure there’ll be more – there’s always more with Isabela, sometimes a lot more if she’s in the mood for stories, and Merrill does love her stories – but Isabela just looks at her. Slowly, Merrill feels her smile fading, and she swallows. “Yes?” she asks, “And?”

The table is silent. Varric shifts in his seat, and Merrill looks at him, sees how very uncomfortable he is. “Daisy… I think… uh… I think maybe Rivaini’s trying to apologise.”

“Why?” Merrill blurts, astonished, then, just as quickly, realisation dawns. She turns back to Isabela and nods, smiling, “Oh! I understand – it couldn’t be helped, Isabela! Of course if you want to invite me next time, I would love to try it, I’ve never been with two people at once, I think it would be really fun! But honestly, you don’t need to apologise for not asking. I was in the Deep Roads, remember?”

Fenris rubs his forehead tiredly, and Aveline scoffs. “No, Merrill,” she says crossly, “Isabela’s not apologising. She’s  _ bragging _ . She stole your man.” Aveline rolls her eyes, “Once a whore, always a whore.”

“But he’s not my…” Merrill begins, then Isabela sneers. 

“Maker, at least I know what to do with a cock when one’s presented to me. Yes, Carver and I fucked, but…”

“Oh Maker’s Arse,  _ do not _ tell me it didn’t mean anything. Isabela, fuck, you don’t know Carver at all, he’s young and…”

“Hawke, shut it, alright, I know your brother better than you’re ever likely to, and he’s a damn sight less…”

“I can’t believe she’d…”

“Why aren’t you more…”

“...Just rude…”

“...legs together for half an hour…”

The noise is overwhelming. It seems like everyone is yelling at everyone else all of a sudden – each face is different, ugly. Merrill stares at each of them, feeling… something, something huge, welling up inside of her. Aveline is pointing her finger angrily at Isabela, who yells across the table at Hawke; Anders’ eyes go from one to the other, his expression one of amused disgust. Fenris is holding his head in both hands and Varric is on his feet too, trying to yell over the others to try and calm things down. Merrill feels cold. This isn’t how friends act. This isn’t how this should be. Why can’t they be happy for Carver, and for Isabela? And for her, since she is happy for them? She takes a deep breath, and slides her chair back, the loud scrape of the action making the others fall to silence. Slowly, Merrill gets up. She frowns a bit, looking at the table, then moves out from where she was sitting, leaving her cards abandoned. She passes Aveline, then Fenris, and finally stands next to Isabela, who looks up at her. Merrill smiles, then asks, “Can I sit with you?”

Isabela narrows her eyes a little bit, then moves back from the table, scrunching to one side in her chair. She laughs, a short gust of sound, then arches an eyebrow, “I don’t know if there’s enough room for us both.”

“Oh, I think there is,” Merrill assures her, then sits a little awkwardly, on Isabela’s lap. Oh, it’s so lovely to be so close to her, to feel the warmth of her body on Merrill’s own skin. She smiles, gently caresses a stray lock of Isabela’s hair back under her bandana, then asks softly, “Will you tell me about it?”

Isabela frowns up at her. The rest of the table is silent still, Merrill can feel their eyes on her, on them, waiting, watching, but honestly? She doesn’t care. At the moment, she only has eyes for Isabela. She feels Isabela’s arm go tentatively around her waist, then there is that arch of eyebrow again, and Isabela asks, “Depends. Are you gonna hex me afterward?”

Merrill giggles. “Why would I hex you? Oh,” she says, suddenly serious, “You  _ did  _ ask him first, didn’t you, Isabela? I would hex you if…”

“Yes, I did. Or, he asked me. I said yes,” Isabela shrugs, nonchalantly, then looks up quizzically into Merrill’s eyes again. She seems to struggle for a moment, then asks, “Are you sure you want to do this? Right here? Right now?”

“Yes,” Merrill states firmly. “I would love to know all about it. But I suppose if you don’t want to… and maybe the others…”

“Oh no, I wanna hear this too, Rivaini,” Varric smirks, leaning forward with one hand under his chin. “Daisy wants you to dish, so you better dish.”

“I don’t know,” Hawke mutters, looking a little revolted. 

But Isabela only laughs, and asks Merrill, “Where should I start?”

“At the beginning, of course,” Merrill smiles, and hugs her a little tighter. Isabela shakes her head fondly, and sighs. 

“Alright,” she says slowly, “Well, Carver came to me and told me he was going up the hill. We talked for a bit, and he seemed… I don’t know, lonely, I suppose.” Isabela picks up her tankard, gesturing across the table to Anders, “You know that lost puppy look people get sometimes in whore-houses, all that  _ I’m shipping out to fight the ‘spawn tomorrow, baby _ , all that stuff.”

Anders frowns, then shrugs and nods. “Yes,” he says huffily, and folds his arms over his chest, “But that shit never worked on me. And, Isabela, he went to the  _ Templars _ . It’s not like going to the Wardens, Maker’s Sake. They only do a bloody pathetic vigil.”

“I’m obviously just more sentimental,” Isabela smirks, then shrugs herself, glancing at Merrill. “Anyway, whatever the reason, whether he started off just wanting to talk and then it occurred to him that a bit of a romp might be a good way to spend a half hour or so…”

“A whole half hour,” Varric laughs, “way to go, Carver.”

“It’d be close to,” Isabela tells him thoughtfully, and Hawke shifts uncomfortably. “I couldn’t get my knickers off fast enough for him, and I have to say, the kid doesn’t talk much, but his mouth sure is good for something. And he takes instruction like a champ.”

“Really?” Fenris asks, suddenly sitting up and scowling at Isabela. Then he clears his throat and shakes his head, raising his eyebrows and looking away. “I… I did not think that would be the case.”

“Well it is,” Isabela confirms. She watches Fenris for a moment, and Merrill watches her features slip into an expression rather like thoughtfulness. “So?” Merrill asks, “What did he do? Did he just lick your pussy, or did he stick his tongue in too? And he really didn’t mind you telling him what to do? He liked it? Did you kiss him after? Oooh, did you suck him off?” 

Aveline chokes on her ale, and Merrill looks at her. Oh dear, Aveline’s gone terribly red, and she can’t seem to stop coughing. Fenris looks at her, then pats her twice, quite hard, on the back. 

“That doesn’t work,” Anders tells him, then says a little louder, “Just try to breathe normally, Aveline.”

Eventually, she gets herself under control, but the blush never leaves her features. “Go on,” she croaks. “Sorry.”

“Getting a bit much for you, is it, big girl?” Isabela inquires, then looks up at Merrill. “He was good, like I said. He didn’t do too much of any one thing – I don’t know about you, but I like a bit of variety. Carver definitely seemed to like doing it though, he was enthusiastic, and he listened when I asked him to do something. That’s a lesson for you, boys,” she laughs, raising her tankard again, taking in the four men at the table in a sweeping motion before she takes another drink. Varric laughs.

“I’m always listening, Rivaini,” he says brightly, and shakes his head. “Come on, get to the gory details.”

Merrill smiles down at her, and Isabela smiles up. “Go on,” Merrill agrees, then asks again, “Did you kiss? What was he like?”

Isabela shakes her head. “No, we didn’t kiss,” she says softly, and glances away. “I… don’t really like to.”

Merrill blinks, only half-hearing Aveline’s scoff. The expression on Isabela’s face is… it’s almost guilt, or sadness, or shame, or all three of those rubbed over with anger and betrayal as well. Merrill’s heart seems to swell inside her chest, and she touches Isabela’s arm gently. “I’m sorry,” she says, and Isabela huffs.

“No need,” she says abruptly, and shrugs. “He’s got a good-looking cock though. Varric, you should write a story about it, honestly, it’s the stuff of legends. And look, I’ve had a bit of cock in my time, so I can speak with some authority, this is a good one. It’s a damn pity that Carver’s gone to waste his life up with those sad pack of wankers. He could make a fucking fortune at the Rose.”

Merrill titters, imagining Carver, surly, shy Carver, as a whore. She looks up, catching Anders looking at Hawke, a wondering expression on his face, then looks at Hawke, who is looking more and more uncomfortable. It’s not an expression of discomfort in the subject matter though – as she watches, Hawke shifts in his seat, pulling at his trousers, then shifting his robes over his lap. Merrill frowns, wondering if perhaps Hawke’s been eating too much of the Hanged Man’s stew again and needs to relieve himself. She is still wondering when Varric’s voice calls out, “You alright, Hawke? You’ve been jiggling about for the last five minutes.”

Hawke looks at him, an expression of utter guilt on his face. “Yes! Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, obviously flustered and trying to pretend not to be. He clears his throat, looking at the table, then looks up at Isabela. “Well? I have to assume there’s more to this story.”

Isabela shrugs, and she looks up at Merrill again. “Oh yeah, so Carver’s cock – it hangs a little to the right, nice shape to it, and it’s big, but he’s gentle with it. A lot of people think the first thing you do with a cock is shove it in as far as it’ll go and that’s what gets you where you need to go. Not Carver. No, he toys with me – a little bit in, slide it back, change up the rhythm. The man is a fucking poet. A bit in, a bit more, back out, until I’m practically begging him to fuck me harder. Actually, I think I said that to him, fuck me, Carver or I’ll walk. Of course, I had no intention of walking – probably couldn’t have by then anyway, not without attending to myself first anyway, but still. And get this – Carver says  _ say please _ . Now, I didn’t, because I wanted to see if he’d stand on it; you know, sort of have a little hissy about it, get a little rough. I almost wanted him to, on some level, because I know I’m more than capable of putting his dick in a bag and sending him home if I’ve got to. Oh, I forgot – I still had one boot on, so I still had my boot knife, sorry, forgot that bit. So, anyway, I…”

 

Isabela is beautiful. Her eyes dance and sparkle, and Merrill knows in that instant, how badly she wants her. Of course, the wet warmth between her legs is a fairly good indication of that as well, but it’s really here, isn’t it, here in her chest, this deep feeling of wanting. It must be so obvious to her. Quietly, Merrill sighs, still half-listening to the story, and she shifts her eyes around the table, watching the others. As she watches, both Hawke and Anders sneak looks at each other, only to glance away again quickly when they realise the other is looking. Fenris is watching them do this with a small, tired smile on his lips. Goodness — he looks lovely in this light. The red-orange of the fire dancing in his hair, he is almost impossibly beautiful, brittle, like broken glass. Merrill longs to reach out, touch him, care for him, but she knows that her gesture would be met with suspicion. She looks at Aveline, who looks desperate, both hands thrust between her legs as if for warmth. But she  _ is _ sweaty, and Merrill frowns a little when she realises that Aveline is shifting forward in her seat occasionally, her eyes never leaving Isabela. Oh. Oh goodness. Well. Merrill averts her eyes, looking to the wall, and then glances at Varric. He seems relaxed, leaning back in his chair, an avid, entranced expression on his face. Merrill smiles, wondering what stories will come of this story, and then she blinks when Isabela asks, “So? Was that what you wanted, kitten?”

“Exactly,” Merrill beams, and leans down, planting a soft kiss against Isabela’s cheek. She lingers for a moment, then moves aside, bending close to Isabela’s ear to murmur, “But I want something else now too. Will you come home with me?”

Isabela chuckles, wrapping her arms around Merrill’s waist; it feels so good, so right, that Merrill beams. Isabela moves her body a little, pulling Merrill’s head down so that she might reply, right against the shell of her ear, “I’ll walk you home, if you like. We can talk. I’d like that – but no more than that. Not tonight. I… Is that alright?”

“Of course,” Merrill murmurs back, and sits up, grinning. “Well,” she tells the table at large, “I think I’m feeling a little sleepy. But… will you all please do something for me? Or at least think about it?”

She doesn’t wait for their replies, though she knows all their eyes are on her without looking up from the table. “Please don’t wait. I… I have a terrible feeling that this is the beginning of… not hard times, not exactly, but I don’t want to lose you, any of you, over things like this. I love Carver. I love Isabela. I love you, Hawke, and you Varric, and you too, Anders and Fenris and Aveline. I love you all. Where is the harm, if you love someone, of showing them? Where is the harm in caring for someone, and caring for the people that care for them? I don’t think there is any. I want you all to be happy, and for you to make the people who love you happy. I know you might not agree with me – but will you please all think about it? For me?”

Merrill scans all their faces – Varric’s sad smile, Fenris’ worried scowl, Anders’ glance at Hawke, Aveline’s tired sigh. She smiles herself, then rises from Isabela’s lap and steps out so that Isabela might join her. “I’ll see you tomorrow!” she trills to the group, waves, then brings both hands to the fronts of her leggings, pulling at them. “Goodness,” she says without thinking, “I’m going to need to do some laundry after that story! I’m all  _ bothered _ now!”

Isabela laughs, and a moment later, the rest of the table join her. Merrill looks at them all and wonders aloud, “What did I say this time?”

“Come on, kitten,” Isabela says, “Let’s get you home.”

And together, they walk out of the Hanged Man, and into the humid Kirkwall evening.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris has always found falling asleep difficult. But when all else fails, this never does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fenris POV, chapter tags: masturbation, past trauma, fantasies, pining.

The mattress in the master bedroom isn’t lumpy, but Fenris still has trouble falling asleep. Wine makes his limbs feel warm and leaden – drunk in the Hanged Man and later, brought up from Danarius’ stores when he still couldn’t settle on returning to the estate. A lifetime of slavery is conducive neither to deep sleep nor pleasant dreams, he’s found, even after nearly two years of freedom.

When the running himself to exhaustion fighting at Hawke’s side doesn’t work and the wine doesn’t help, Fenris is left with only one tried and true method.

He shucks off his layers, lying exposed to the empty room in the dying light of the embers in the fireplace. Doing this is… something he tends to avoid. It’s still strange to have notions such as freedom, privacy, or bodily autonomy as a reality; the act of touching himself defies all three limitations on those ideas in Tevinter, still sending jolts of alarm through him should he sink too far into his fantasies.

His first touch is always tentative, a sweep of his fingers from chest to thigh, reacquainting himself with his own bare skin. Tonight interest is surprisingly quick to stir, his cock filling a little before he even brushes it. Fenris hums thoughtfully, taking himself in hand with several deliberate strokes. If he could bring himself to climax without thinking of anything, get off on pure stimulation alone, he would. Far too often his thoughts turn to the past, to things he’d rather not contemplate ever again – but he is restless, in need of release, and this is the only way.

He starts with Isabela; she is safe, would not be offended to be the object of his fantasies, should they come to light – as such things tend to in their circle of companions. “Sweet thing,” she murmurs into the shell of his ear, sitting astride his lap as his hands skim up her thighs, pull her in toward him. Then she’s below him, naked but for the gold crowning her neck and ears, rocking back against his fingers, wet and hot and moaning- he thinks of Merrill sitting on Isabela’s thigh, her comment on being bothered and the way she squirmed just a bit when Isabela murmured the sordid details of her encounter with Carver in her ear.

Merrill looks at him. Says his name and “love” in the same sentence. Fenris mentally recoils at the memory but the images are already seeping in. She tears her own tunic again and it falls away as Fenris presses her against a wall until she gasps and wraps her legs around his waist. He pins her arms above her head – they are thin and scarred like Hadriana’s but she is so unlike Hadriana, in the lightness of her body and the kindness in her gaze and the way she giggles and moans when Fenris presses into her.

His cock twitches in his grasp and Fenris closes his eyes, casting about for something, anything else to think about but the witch and how pretty the sounds she makes could be with her head arched back and Isabela’s head between her pale thighs. The image sends a jolt of heat through him and Fenris bites his lip. _Venhedis_. He attempts to turn his thoughts to an anonymous figure, perhaps with calloused hands and a broad chest who goes easily to their knees when Fenris gives them the lightest of pushes. “He takes instructions well,” Isabela hums, licking the shell of his ear and blowing on it until sensation skitters down to his hips and Fenris looks down to meet Carver’s eyes just before they flutter shut.

His mouth moves without permission. “Suck me, and don’t use your hands,” he growls and is gratified, filled with tantalizing heat as the man smirks at him but obeys without question, even groaning when Fenris winds fingers through his hair and tugs. He’s seen the man naked often enough on their trips outside of Kirkwall proper to detail the scars littering Carver’s shoulders and in his fantasy the younger Hawke moans when he gently rakes his nails over them.

The desire that washes through him in response to the image is nearly overwhelming and Fenris groans, arching into his own fist as he runs a thumb over his cockhead and reaches for something grounding. Sword-calloused hands that catch him when he stumbles, just on the wrong side of drunkenness, an entire face flushed red when Isabela teases; Aveline is always armored, movements deliberate and words clipped. But for all her barriers she is not a harsh woman, and Fenris wonders if she’d let that softness she guards into the open if she consented to let him touch her. Would she let him press her back into a bed, for all her shoulders alone are half-again his size? He pictures her going easily, those rough hands brushing up his back and down again.

Fenris sighs, lets his free hand trace up his stomach and chest, jolting a little every time he passes over a brand. His mind is a whirl of images, each more tantalizing than the last and it drives him to the edge – faces and hands and lips on him, crooning his name. _Fenris_ . A flash of a sharp nose, a greying beard and the scent of blood and sandalwood oil. _Fenris, my little wolf_. His breath catches and he spasms, clenching down on the shiver of _fearsubmissiondisgust_ he hoped to avoid tonight. “No,” he protests, but already his interest is wilting and promises to leave him sleepless and more restless than ever. He casts about for something, anything to force that unwanted memory from his mind.

“Hey, calm down, Broody,” Varric murmurs into his ear, and Fenris clings to his voice, imagines himself leaning against the dwarf’s bare chest and turns his face into his warmth, the scent of earth and weapon oil and ink. “There we go,” he says, pressing a kiss to the side of Fenris’ neck. Stubble scrapes over his skin and Varric reaches for his cock, hands gentle and sure. They coax him away, from bad memories and years of darkness; his voice smoothing down the ragged edges until Fenris can relax a little, let himself touch again as he envisions Varric mimicking his motions. It takes time, minutes of nonsense words in Varric’s voice and cadence before Fenris is fully hard again, his breath hitching a little when Varric takes one of his nipples between two fingers and rolls it. Fenris reaches up, tangling fingers in blond hair, but it’s not Varric’s lips that he kisses, not Varric who is suddenly braced over his lap, his hard cock grinding into Fenris’ belly.

Anders moans his name, brown eyes fixed on Fenris’ face when he pulls away. Heat builds quickly in his stomach and it’s all Fenris can do to pull the mage in, meeting his gaze as Anders sinks down onto his cock until his eyes flutter shut and his head tilts back.

_Fuck_. Fenris’ eyes slam shut and he bites his lip, fighting back a whimper as his hand speeds up. He _wants_ , in this moment, and the need rolls over him like waves against the shore, like Hawke’s breathy chuckle as he pulls Fenris back against his chest, one hand settling on Anders’ thigh as the mage moans again and grinds down on his cock.

“Gorgeous, both of you,” Hawke groans, pressing his hardness into Fenris’ back and sliding a hand down his stomach until it settles just above the base of Fenris’ cock, under Anders’ balls. Hawke plants a kiss on his shoulder, beard rough against his skin and the sensations are too much. “Why don’t you come for us, Fenris?”

And there are hands on him, too many to belong to just two people, caressing his skin, dragging nails just sharp enough to sting. Words of murmured praise in a multitude of voices.

Fenris gasps and arches, his heels digging into the mattress as he comes hard over his hand and belly. He only stops when his cock is too sensitive to go on, slumping back with wide eyes as he stares at the ceiling blankly.

It’s easy not to think of the implications of his fantasies during the act, but afterward there’s no avoiding it. His breast feels tight with emotions too numerous to name, but the easiest to identify are confusion, anger, frustration. Longing.

He cleans up with a discarded rag and rolls to his side so he can stare at the wall instead.

Sleep is a long time coming, but when it takes him it is deep and dreamless.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris is not the only one who can't sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anders POV, chapter tags: past relationships, pre-relationship Anders/Varric, manifesto, loneliness, sharing a bed, mutual pining

_Change cannot come in increments! We must seize_

No. It’s too strident still – the tone is all wrong. Anders knows he can’t afford to lapse into hyperbole. He takes a deep breath and rubs an inkstained hand over his temple. His eyes hurt; it’s very late, or perhaps even early, but he cannot seem to rest. Ideas keep swirling around his head, and as soon as it touches the pillow he seems to have a moment of blinding clarity which disappears as soon as he has the parchment in front of him.

He sighs, resting the quill back in its little stand. Justice unfurls within him and idly, he strokes his chest, pressing his fingers through the thin cloth of his robes, dragging them across the thickened purple flesh of the scar. Maker, that was awful, facing off against Alrik today. And that poor girl – the terror on her face writ large. As his touch moves across his body, he shivers. _Perhaps Hawke would_ … his mind begins, before the thought is cut off sharply. Is that him, or is it Justice? He doesn’t know for sure. Perhaps both. But he… he can’t. He shouldn’t. Not now. Not after everything he’s done. And certainly not after Karl. And just the thought of him, only his name, it sends such a flurry of memories into his head – Karl’s laugh, Karl’s sloppy handwriting, Karl’s coy smile, Karl whispering bad poetry to him, Karl, Karl, Karl.

Anders’ breath hitches and he clenches his fists, then slams them both hard against the tabletop. The ink bottle jumps and the quill falls off its holder. Quite suddenly, he has to get out of here – it feels too confined, too restricted, as if he can feel the weight of the whole city above him. He rises suddenly, takes his cloak in one hand and bends, extinguishing the candle in one breath. The city awaits.

The air isn’t much better out here – thick and stagnant, rank with salt and rotting fish from the harbour. Kirkwall blisters by day under the yoke of an intense summer; by night, the heat is hardly less stifling. The silent contest for power between the entrenched Viscount and the Knight-Commander and the strange disappearances of women and the mass unemployment, the plague boats and the rumours about conditions in the mines… it’s one thing after the next. Anders takes a deep breath. There’s been an… unsettling, unsettled feeling in him lately, some kind of… itch. Ever since the party had come back from the Deep Roads; no, maybe even before that. After that stupid game of Isabela’s. Anders looks down briefly at his boots, striding aimlessly along the wharf, as something in his mind unhelpfully throwing a series of images into his head – Hawke’s dark hair, his temples damp with sweat, dark eyes sparkling; Merrill’s ripped clothing, the white of her skin bright even under the layers of dirt and deep exhaustion. Varric’s lip, torn and bloody from where he’d obviously been biting it, the way his fingers kept straying to it, tongue flicking out to taste the blood; Fenris pulling off his armour piece by piece, throwing it on the floor of the clinic. Over and over again those long fingers tug at the knots in the bindings, his nails crusted with blood in spite of the gauntlets he wears. Anders shivers, tries to push away the images. What does he want? He rubs his chest, over the scar and looks out and up to where Hightown rises, the spires of the Gallows just visible in the moonlight over the city.  

What does he want? To the same question once the answer would have been simple; a warm meal, a pretty girl, and the right to shoot lightning at fools. He snorts at himself, remembering. It was never the true answer; the truth is vastly more complex. But even the most complicated answer he might have given in the past pales in comparison to how he feels now – he feels suffused with contradictory wants, each as deep as the other. Justice’s presence is compelling, but he wanted what Justice wants before they joined. And he wants Karl – wants him still. And he wants Hawke, wants to feel those rough hands in his hair, that stubble catching in his own. And he wants Isabela, just for a moment, just to remember what it felt like to fuck without the weight of consequence, or in spite of it. And Merrill, for all he wants to shake some sense into the silly wee thing sometimes, but her laugh, her wonder, her complete lack of fear. And Fenris, Maker help him, he wants him too; wants the elf to hold him down, take him, breath hot on his neck. He wants freedom. He wants love. He wants to see an end to the cruelties that this city seems to perpetrate against all its citizens – mage and refugee and poor alike – on a daily, an hourly basis. He wants all of them, all of it.

And the wanting seems to pull him ever onward, into an abyss of his own making. Anders bites his tongue, shifts his shoulders and looks up – above him, the sign of the Hanged Man sways slightly in the breeze which blows up from the harbour. The noise from within is loud, but Anders pauses in the golden light which spills under the crack in the door. Other people. Perhaps that will scratch this itch, at least for a while. He puts out one hand, pauses, almost reconsidering, then pushes the door open and slips inside.

It’s warm, and the smell of old ale and stew and people crammed together is both unpleasant and so deeply wonderful that Anders smiles. Corff gives him a short nod from the bar and Anders raises one eyebrow, begins making his way over. The bartender pushes a tankard toward him roughly, slopping some of the ale onto the surface of the bar, and Anders looks at him. “I don’t…” he says, and Corff waves his hand.

“Paid for,” he grunts. “Dwarf said.”

“Oh. Uh… thank you?” Anders hazards, but Corff has already turned away, yelling at Norah to get them to cut the shit in the back, tell ‘em he’ll have ‘em out otherwise, you hear? Anders stares at the tankard, then looks toward the back of the room. Varric. Why? He’d never thought that the dwarf had any sort of soft spot for him – certainly, while they’re not exactly antagonistic, they’re hardly friendly either. Anders looks at the tankard again. Is it some sort of charity case thing? He feels ire rise within him, Justice curling the thought _silver for refugees, not ale_ into his mind. Nugshit. It’s the dwarf’s money, he should do what he wants with it. Shouldn’t he? But why wouldn’t he want to do better things than buying drinks? Maker knows there are a lot of people he could help with his money. Slowly, Anders’ curls one hand into a fist and glances at the back of the room. He pauses for an instant, then leaves the full tankard on the bar and strides through the crowds.

“Varric?”

There is a stir from within the room and a quiet groan. Anders huffs out a breath, feeling annoyed. He knocks softly once more, and hisses, “Varric? Are you awake? It’s me, Anders.”

_Avoiding you_ , Justice mutters, and Anders scowls.

_He’s not. He’s asleep,_ he thinks in reply. _We should go_.

Before Anders can turn to leave, the door opens a crack and Varric blinks up at him. “Blondie?” he asks. “What’s wrong?”

“I… I just… uh,” Anders begins, then takes a deep breath and sighs. “I… was looking for a bit of company, and I came here and Corff just… handed me an ale. Said he’d been instructed to. By you? And… I mean, thank you for the gesture, it’s very kind, but… don’t you… don’t you think you might spend your money more wisely?”

Varric stares up at him, looking rather shocked. Then he frowns, shakes his head and throws the door open, before turning around and walking away. “Blondie,” he says tiredly, “get in here.”

Anders pauses at the door, then narrows his eyes and slips inside, closing it quietly behind him.  He watches as Varric rubs his hands over his face – he’s wearing a nightshirt and his feet are bare. Anders blinks and looks away; he hears Varric snort, and the creak of wood and soft noises of blankets being arranged as Varric climbs back into his bed. “I’m sorry,” Anders says, still looking at the wall, “I didn’t…”

“Yeah, you did,” Varric laughs, and there’s a pause. Then Varric sighs and says, “Come over here.”

Anders glances toward the bed and frowns. “Uh,” he says, and shifts from foot to foot. “I don’t…”

“Blondie, you fuckin’ woke me up. The least you could do is stride across the room with those long-ass human legs and take a load off.”

One by one, weak excuses rise to the front of Anders’ mind, only to be pushed away again. Finally he grunts in assent and takes four paces to the side of Varric’s bed. A moment’s hesitation, then he perches on the edge of it. Varric laughs a little, and Anders feels him shift. There is silence for a minute, then Varric asks softly, “You alright?”

“Of course,” Anders says abruptly, his shoulders immediately tensing. He expects Varric to push; almost wants him to, if the truth is told, because being angry at Varric for prying is easier than feeling sorry for himself. _Self doesn’t matter, cog in the wheel_ , Justice murmurs in the back of his mind, and Anders’ brow furrows.

_I know_ , he tells Justice, hating the petulance of the thought and then flinches when there is a touch on his arm. He turns, sees Varric looking up at him.

“Hey,” Varric says gently, “C’mon. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. You don’t owe me shit.” He snorts and his lip curls in a rueful smile. “In fact, if anything, I owe you. What you did for us after we came back…”

Anders shakes his head, turning his body slightly to look properly at Varric. “You don’t owe me anything,” he says, his voice low, irritated sounding even to himself. “I’m a healer, Varric. It’s what I do.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Varric says, his voice a soothing rumble. Anders blinks as he watches Varric’s tongue come out of his mouth, lick slowly across the scab on his lower lip.

“Try not to do that,” he says softly, and before he has thought better of it, his hand is up, palm resting just under Varric’s jaw, the side of his thumb wiping the moisture gently off the surface of Varric’s damaged lip. Varric’s eyes widen in shock, but before Anders can pull away, he puts his hand over Anders’ own. They stare at each other in the low light, then Varric grins and drops his eyes but not his hand.

“Just… lonely, I guess,” he mutters, before pressing his hand a little tighter to Anders’ and then dropping it as well. “I mean… well, shit, you don’t… You don’t, we don’t… I mean, I…”

“Varric,” Anders mutters, then finds himself at a loss for words. Varric smiles, but doesn’t raise his eyes.

“Yeah, sorry,” he mumbles, “I just… all this shit with Bartrand, you know? We never…” He sighs, then looks at Anders sharply. “You got any siblings, Blondie?”

“Not that I know of,” Anders tells him quietly. He’s never seen Varric like this before. Usually he’s full of bluster and bonhomie, all sly looks and witty retort. But this… this is different. Vulnerable, and with an unguardedness that causes Anders’ own defenses to crumble. “Varric?” he asks softly. “What you said before… about being lonely. I… I couldn’t sleep. After… there’s been so much… so much in my head lately that I just… I feel like there’s no time to process anything. And I don’t understand what you must feel about Bartrand, but I can imagine being stuck down there, trapped, it must have been terrifying, and I...”

“Spit it out, Blondie,” Varric says softly, and Anders pauses, bites his lip.

“I… alright,” he says reluctantly. “I suppose what I’m asking is… well. I came here tonight because I felt like I needed people. Often, it seems easier to push them away than let them get close to you, to… let them into your life.” He laughs, feeling slightly on edge, and shrugs. “Often it _is_ easier. But…ugh, Maker, why is this so hard?” Once more, he bites his lip, then shakes his head and blurts, “Can I stay with you tonight?”

There is total silence in the room for a long time. Even the noise of the bar has faded somewhat; whether that’s because it’s getting on for morning or because Anders cannot hear it over the thump of his pulse in his temples, he does not know. He takes a shallow breath, smiles and tenses his muscles, ready to rise, to flee. But before he can, Varric’s hand is once more on his arm, and Anders turns to face him.

“Yeah,” Varric tells him, “‘Course you can. But… I mean, what do you want from me?”

_What do I want_? Anders wonders, and shrugs. “Just be here. That’s all. I just… I just want someone to be with. Is that alright? I mean…”

“Yeah,” Varric repeats, and he looks almost relieved. He shifts aside a little, making space for Anders, then puts the coverlet back and grins. “Hope you don’t snore.”

“I hope _you_ don’t,” Anders smiles, and bends to take off his boots.

The candle is extinguished, and Anders’ eyes are closed. It’s a strange comfort to have someone else in the bed next to him. He sighs, then blinks his eyes open when Varric murmurs his name and says, “Ask you something?”

“Yeah,” Anders murmurs, rolling over awkwardly to face Varric. He can just make out the dwarf’s face in the diffuse grey light, though he cannot see the expression upon it.

“That guy,” Varric says quietly. “The guy in the Chantry. The Tranquil. Was he your..?”

“Yes. Karl.” Anders says his name into the silence which follows Varric’s words. He smiles sadly. “He was mine, I was his. He’s gone. And I suppose that means it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Varric is quiet for a long time, and Anders exhales a small laugh, even as he feels tears prickling at his eyes. He closes them once more, then Varric shifts. “No,” he says softly, “it still matters. They might be gone, but they’ll always be part of who we are.” He pauses, then Anders feels a gentle hand on his hip – it’s there briefly, then gone. “Goodnight, Anders. I’ll be here.”

“G’night,” Anders mumbles, and Varric’s words follow him down into sleep: _It still matters. I’ll be here._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke invites Anders to the newly-refurbished Amell estate to give him a gift and things come to a head.
> 
> (Now without three years of pining!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, the chapter that I (tsurai) have been waiting for~!  
> Hawke POV, tags: Anders/Hawke, love confessions, explicit sexual content, blow jobs, & anal sex

There are few things worse than trying to clean up a mansion in the middle of Hightown, Hawke has decided. Between clearing now years-old corpses from the inside, hiring out dwarven construction workers to restore the place to something livable, and dealing with Mother breathing down his neck to get everything done as quickly as possible now that their noble title and rights to the mansion have been restored, he’s at his wits end. The dwarves turn out to be his saving grace – Varric is able to negotiate the price of restoration down with the Laborer’s Guild (or is it the Guild of Laborers? He can never remember) and Bodahn handles all the fiddly details when he finally guilts Hawke into handing over the ever-growing list of things to take care of and items to be bought.

Now, finally, a day of rest. Mother is off, already making nice with snooty nobles. Bodahn’s dragged Sandal out to run errands, and Carver is… not here. It’s only Hawke in the vast house, Dog chasing through the dust motes as weak sunlight pours through high windows.

He’s alone but for the man standing next to him, gazing around with wide eyes at the clean, bloodless interior.

“So, what do you think?” he asks, turning to the man. “Should I fire the interior decorator? Varric vouched for him but I’m still not sure about his taste in rugs.”

Anders’ eyes snap to him and Hawke is delighted when he chuckles. “It’s… nice. Very nice. Much better than that shithole of your uncle’s, at least. Everything’s finished?”

“Nearly done, yeah. Mother’s still fussing over ordering curtains, pillow cases, rubbish like that.” Hawke shrugs one shoulder, setting his staff just beside the arch to the entrance hall. He isn’t offended when Anders keeps his close, considering the last time he was here he helped Hawke clear out scores of slavers bent on killing them all.  Cautiously, he watches Anders, who appears to be examining a painting – Hawke has no idea who it’s of, and frankly, he doesn’t care. Because all of a sudden, he’s lost.

Lost in the set of Anders’ shoulders, the curve of his nose, the way the light shines in his hair, the shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. He wants to kiss those shadows, feel the delicate skin under his lips, feel Anders’ pulse under his palm as he slides both hands down his neck to open the fastenings of his cloak. He’s lost in the way he feels about this man, the fierceness of it, the depth and he licks his lips, breath catching in his throat when Anders looks at him curiously then frowns. “What?” he asks, then rubs his face. “Do I have ink on me?”

“N-no,” Hawke stammers, and clears his throat. Anders waits, still watching him, then smiles in confusion. “Hawke? What is it?”

Hawke grins, bites his lip and shrugs. “Nothing. Really. I just… I like your cloak, that’s all.”

Anders continues to frown, then sighs and hefts his staff. He hesitates for a moment, then turns slightly, walking to where Hawke has put his, and leans his own against the wall next to it. Something in Hawke trembles at that sight – their staffs against the wall together – though he doesn’t want to analyse too closely what he thinks. “You know,” Anders tells him, and Hawke notes that he too is staring at their staffs together, “I’ve been meaning to thank you. For what you’ve done. You’ve… really stuck your neck out for the mages here. You didn’t have to. It would have been easier not to. For you, and for Carver, especially considering where he’s gone, the decision he made.” A brief expression of bitterness flits over Anders’ features, and Hawke braces mentally, but whatever he’d been predicting never comes. Instead, Anders sighs, then resumes: “But it takes courage to step into the line of fire. I… wanted to let you know I appreciate it.”

Hawke scoffs, glances away and shrugs, returning his gaze to Anders, who looks at him and smiles. “Well,” he says, dropping his tone and grinning a little, certain that his flirtation will be met with a blush and brusque change of subject, “I always did like scrappy underdogs.”

Anders’ smile fades, and Hawke’s stomach drops. “I mean,” he blusters quickly, “I mean, I’m not just doing it… Maker, I don’t think it’s a lost cause. That makes it sound like I think everything’s doomed, it’s not, I… uh, I just… I mean, I’m doing my best, I know it’s…”

“Hawke,” Anders says, stepping closer, his hands out, but Hawke babbles right over the top of him.

“No, but I mean, I kind of _do_ have to stick my neck out? I mean, if I’m not going to do it, then who is? And if this fucked-up city can’t see that… well, I mean, how many years have I been running around this place with a giant bloody staff strapped to my back and I’ve not been chucked in the Gallows, and that’s some fucked-up logic right there and…”

“Hawke, please,” Anders says again, his eyes wide, and Hawke laughs nervously and opens his hands in a wide gesture, continuing his rambling speech even as something in his brain tries to get him to stop speaking, Maker, stop speaking now.

“And look, I mean, I understand that you want to keep your contacts with the underground close, I do understand that, absolutely, but Maker, some days I just, this place, Anders, this place is just so _fucked_ , I just wish we could just… just lift every mage, every one of those poor bastards in Darktown and the Alienage and just… take ‘em all out of this utter shithole. But wishing never did shit, did it, which is why you’re down there every day, helping people in… in a much more real way than I have. And… and if…” Hawke’s words are finally slowing, and he blinks at Anders and drops his eyes, folds his arms over his chest. “And if… if there’s one thing in my life so far that I’m happy I did, it was meet you. I never felt this way before about anyone. The… the compassion you show, the lengths you’re willing to go to free mages… I just… I’m so proud of you. And… I think…”

He stumbles over his words and is finally silent. Anders stares at him and Hawke looks back, appalled at himself. _You’ve done it this time_ , he thinks, and sighs. He opens his mouth, meaning to apologise, when Anders takes a last step forward, and speaks.

“Hawke,” he says, his voice low, almost breathless, “I’ve tried to hold back. But…” he shakes his head, puts one hand to his hair and restlessly tucks it behind his ear. “You saw what I did… to that girl. You… you know what I am. What _we_ are. But please. I’m just a man. And… and I can’t resist forever.”

Silence then, and Hawke feels like the world has suddenly burst into flame. All he sees is the depth of feeling in Anders’ eyes, the brilliant shine of them, how his jaw works, the quiver in his nostrils. Before he has time to consider a proper response, he growls, “Maybe I don’t want you to resist.” And with that, he steps forward, closing the distance between them.

They come together like the crash of waves, like the snap of firewood breaking and spewing embers and heat everywhere – Hawke sucks in a breath as Anders’ hands reach up to slide from his cheeks to his hair and yank him into a kiss. Their lips meet and in an instant Hawke is too far gone to care about his chapped lips as he licks into Anders’ mouth. The man moans, presses against his front until it’s all he can do to wrap shaking hands around Anders’ waist and hold him close. His heart hammers an uneven staccato – he can barely believe this is happening, but Anders is warm to the touch and he can feel the sharp angle of his hips even through the thick coat, feel the tug of fingers wound through his hair. _This is real. Maker, but this is actually happening._

He pulls away only for a moment to catch his breath, groaning against Anders’ mouth when he chases his lips. “Anders…” the single word comes out higher than he meant, nearly a whine, but he doesn’t have time to feel embarrassed about it when Anders looks at him with wide eyes, pupils blown with lust, and licks his lips. _Fuck_. That ruins any self-control he may have had. The next moment he’s pushing Anders back a step, two, until the man’s back hits a wall and Hawke can press their bodies together until every plane of Anders’ form is brought to sharp relief against Hawke’s skin.

There’s a moment of painful stillness, Anders stiff for a long second before he murmurs, “Hawke-” but cuts himself off by pulling him into another kiss, body completely relaxing into his. Hawke gives back as much as he gets, kissing the man again and again until heat starts to coil in his belly and he tears himself away just enough to press kisses to his mouth, the corner of his jaw. Anders protests wordlessly, trying to turn his head so their lips will meet again, but all Hawke wants is to touch, to taste, to get his lips on every part of him.

“Anders… Maker, you have no idea,” he says, pressing a kiss to his neck and running a hand down his side, “no idea how- how long I’ve wanted to touch you. Kiss you everywhere. Please, let me just-” He gives up on words, licking a long stripe up the side of Anders’ neck until he reaches the apex next to his ear, then gives the lobe a gentle bite. This has the response Hawke was hoping for – Anders arches his neck and back with a wordless gasp, pressing up against Hawke’s thigh so hard he can feel the man’s erection through his trousers. Anders’ hands fall to his shoulders as if to brace himself between Hawke and the wall, hot breath fanning over Hawke’s cheek.

Anders smells like Darktown sewers and the dull herbal tang of elfroot, and all he wants is to press his face to every inch of him, to watch the man he’s longed to touch come apart under his fingers. His hands fall of their own accord, skimming over the buckles of Anders’ robes until they fall to his belt. Hawke tucks his fingers under the leather, tugs gently and asks, though he can barely breathe through the wild pounding of his heart and the roar in his ears, “Can I…?”

The hands on his shoulders clench in the fabric, shoving him back just far enough that Anders can look him in the eye, his gaze darting over Hawke’s face as if searching for any hesitation. Hawke looks back with no attempt to conceal the surge of hunger, of love, of desperation running through his body. As he watches Anders’ cheeks go ruddy, his eyes half-lidded, he doesn’t need his next words to read his assent.

“Yes, Maker! Hawke, please touch me,” comes out all in one ragged breath, the roughness of his voice sending a jolt down Hawke’s spine.

It’s all he can do to kiss him, and kiss him again, his hands fumbling at Anders’ belt even as the grasp on his shoulder transfers to the back of his neck, holding Hawke in place as Anders sighs into his mouth and bites his bottom lip until he groans.

Then the belt is undone and he pulls back, smiling at the way Anders says his name in protest right up to the moment he sinks to his knees and wrenches Anders’ smallclothes aside. A gasp, and Hawke can barely tear his eyes away from the rapidly-hardening cock in front of his face to meet Anders’ gaze. Fuck, but he can feel the heat of his eyes on him, fixed on his mouth. Hawke quirks a grin and reaches with one hand to stroke from root to tip.

If he thought that Anders was reactive before in response to their kissing, it’s nothing to the choked, breathy sound he makes then. It drives Hawke forward – he can’t go another moment without tasting him, without knowing the sort of sounds he’ll make with his cock in Hawke’s mouth. It’s a warm, heavy weight on Hawke’s tongue. Already he can taste the bitter salt leaking from it, enough to make him groan and reach to steady himself against the wall by Anders’ hip with his free hand.

“H-Hawke,” Anders gasps, hands coming to Hawke’s hair but not pulling him away. “Oh, that feels-” he cuts off when Hawke presses forward, sucking, half-desperate to make this man lose his words, to not think. He wants Anders to take this for what it is, to lose himself in the sensation of it. He wants to take him to bed and bring him past the brink over and over again, until he sleeps deep enough to lose the purple bags under his eyes and the strain around his mouth that’s been present ever since facing down Alrik. He wants and he wants, but most of all he wants to give Anders everything he can to see him happy. And now judging by the moan above his head when he finally takes him in down to the fingers he’s wrapped around the base of Anders’ cock, he’s managing some small part of it.

Hawke closes his eyes then, focusing on his self-appointed task. He licks, sucks, and works with his hands, doing everything he can to elicit those tiny breathy noises and Anders’ hands in his hair, gripping and releasing but never pushing him down. His own cock is starting to cry out for attention, but Hawke tries his best to ignore it, too desperate to memorise everything of Anders under his hands, in his mouth. Every few minutes he tilts his head up to meet Anders’ eyes, taking in his heaving chest, the way the man alternates between biting his lip, between squeezing his eyes shut and opening them to look back down at him – desperate and lost and so full of an emotion Hawke can only hope is love.

It doesn’t take long before Anders bucks into his mouth, restrained only by the hand Hawke plants on his hip, and whispers, “Hawke, Maker, I’m going to... please, oh please,” and groans when Hawke sucks harder and speeds his pace. He’s rock-hard now, every instinct urging him to press back against Anders, to rub his cock up against Anders’ leg and get off at his feet like a dog if only the man will let him. It takes all he has to concentrate on the way Anders’ balls tighten and draw up under his hand. He sucks hard, licking upwards until only the head is in his mouth as he jerks Anders’ cock once, twice, before sinking as far to the hilt as he can go. And that’s enough. The hands in his hair wind almost painfully tight as Anders makes a strangled, quiet sound and releases down his throat.

He takes it, swallows and licks the underside of Anders’ shaft to coax out more until the man shudders and tugs him away by the hair. And then there’s a hand on his shirt, yanking him up and back to Anders’ mouth for a rough kiss that only slows enough for Hawke to catch his breath after a long minute.

“Maker, that was-” Anders gasps, letting his head thump back against the wall, “that was… _Hawke_.” He sounds strangled, unsure, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened. It sends a stab of sympathetic pain through Hawke’s chest and he leans in, keeping his kiss gentle this time; grounding.

“Come to bed with me?” he murmurs against the man’s mouth. And Maker-dammit, he doesn’t mean to sound so unsure but every bone in his body is aching for _more more more_ of Anders and there is so much room for doubt. There’s a pause, a short, sharp flash of blue crackling over Anders’ cheek that Hawke thinks should probably elicit more concern than it actually does, but Anders nods, a slow smile stretching over his lips.

Hawke grins dopily back, takes him by the hand, and turns to lead the way to the master bedroom. The manner in which they shed their clothes is far from sexy – could almost be considered perfunctory, but for the way Hawke trips trying to take off his boot halfway across the landing. They make it to his room and stop again when Anders gets one of the many buckles on his robe caught in his hair, and Hawke has to laugh for a good five seconds before he moves to help him. Then they stand naked together, taking each other in for long moments. Hawke is far from finished with visually tracing the planes of Anders’ body before the man is pushing him toward the bed and down, crawling over him and pressing kisses to Hawke’s neck, his chest, his nipples. Hawke’s hands fly to his hips as he gasps Anders’ name.

“Ah fuck, Anders, fuck me?” He shifts his hips up, pressing his erection against the crease of Anders’ thigh, then moves his hands to Anders’ arse. “Or do you want me to fuck you?” He squeezes, and is rewarded with the darkening of his lover’s eyes and a twitch from his cock, already half-hard again.

In answer, Anders grabs one of Hawke’s hands and pulls on the Fade for just long enough that Hawke’s palm fills with conjured oil. He curses, surprised and delighted, before dragging Anders down to kiss him again. The preparation is slow, lacking the desperate drive of before, and he luxuriates in being able to soak in every moment. He watches intently when Anders finally sinks onto his cock, head tilted back with rapture even as his eyes never break away from Hawke’s. It’s not long until they’re both sweaty and moaning, measuring breaths together as Hawke pushes up to meet Anders’ glorious heat. He changes angle slightly and laughs when Anders lets out a startled squawk, almost a squeak as Hawke hits his prostate. Anders smacks his chest with the back of his hand and he retaliates by seizing his hips to roll them both over until Anders is splayed out underneath him.

Hawke takes in the flush on Anders’ cheeks, the angles of corded muscle over sharp bone, the way his cock leaves smears of precome against the hair trailing down his navel. “Fuck, but you’re lovely,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and moves again when Anders opens his mouth to reply.

It takes a while, but soon they sync up, the thrust and give of their bodies building into inexorable heat. Anders buries a hand in his own hair, pulling on it as the other clutches at Hawke’s shoulder and he starts to make those same quiet, pleased sounds he did downstairs when he was close to his peak. Hawke speeds his movement, trying to find the right angle again even as Anders tightens around him and drives him to the brink.

“Close, Maker. I’m close,” he pants into Anders’ neck, pressing open-mouth kisses between every heaving breath.

A hiss as Anders replies, “Yes, please – come in me, love,” against his ear, and the last word is enough to break him. Hawke groans, deepens his thrusts as he crests, retaining just enough of his mind to get a hand between them and stroke Anders’ cock until the man gasps and tightens near-painfully around him until white heat washes awareness away.

He regains himself slowly, lying next to his lover on the wrinkled red duvet as they both try to get their breath back. Hawke turns his head to see Anders looking back at him, the heat from earlier gone from his gaze to be replaced by something almost… cautious. _We can’t be having that_ , he thinks to himself, turning to his side without further thought and bringing a hand to Anders’ cheek as he presses a slow, deliberate kiss to his lover’s mouth. He looks so good spread out against Hawke’s bed, his hair shining in the light of the late afternoon sun creeping through the windows, his face relaxing in the aftermath of pleasure in a way that takes years of stress off him. Hawke loves this, loves _him_ , and he opens his mouth to say just that when he’s suddenly struck by the realization that he never did get around to the reason he invited Anders to the manor in the first place.

“Ah, I forgot,” he mutters, surprised, and sits up to throw his legs over the edge of the bed.

He’s halfway across the room to his pile of clothing when Anders quietly calls, “Hawke?” his voice so tentative that Hawke freezes on the realization of how this must appear to him.

He throws a smile over his shoulder, as warm as he can make it. “Back in a moment, love. Just something I forgot to give you earlier,” he says, taking no notice of the stunned silence that floats over him as he fishes through the pockets of his discarded housecoat. “Where in the Void did I- ah, here it is.” He straightens and walks back to fall onto the bed next to Anders, who stares at him with wide eyes as Hawke holds out a closed fist. “I got this for you. I mean, I got copies for the others, too, because Maker knows they all need better places than Lowtown or the Alienage or a corpse-filled manor to stay, but-” he cuts off the babble, takes a deep breath, and drops the gift into Anders’ waiting hand. “I wanted to give this to you first.”

For a long moment there is silence as Anders stares down at the keyring in his palm. Then his looks back up to him, expression blank with shock. “This… is the key to your house.”

Hawke nods. “The front door, and the smaller silver one is for the basement entrance near your clinic, in case of emergencies or you need to get there and back quickly.”  
Another moment, Anders looks back down to the keys. “You’re asking me to move in with you? You… you’d be alright with everyone knowing an apostate mage is such an important part of your life?” His voice is strained, tremulous, as if choking back tears. _Maker_ , but Hawke can only hope they’re happy tears.

“Yes? I mean…” he reaches out for Anders’ hand, cradling it in both his own until the man’s fingers curl around the keys in a tight grip. “You don’t have to live here if you don’t want to, I just… I want you to be safe. I don’t care what everyone else thinks, Anders. I-” Hawke swallows, “I love you, and I’ll shout it from the steps of the Viscount’s Keep if that’s what it takes to make you happy.”

Hawke’s heart pounds, and it’s all he can do to wait as his face flushes with nerves and his mouth goes dry. He holds steady as he can when Anders looks up at him again, as the man’s eyes search for something in his for long seconds. Then Anders’ face softens, his lips curling into a lovely, heart-wrenching smile Hawke’s never seen before.

“I love you too, Garrett,” he says, and leans up still smiling to meet him with a kiss that makes Hawke forget everything but the sensation of Anders’ lips on his skin.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aveline is frustrated with her infatuation for Donnic Hendyr. Merrill and Isabela open new doors, both figurative and literal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aveline POV. Tags: Aveline/Merrill/Isabela, established Isabela/Merrill, explicit sexual content, semi-public masturbation, voicing erotic fantasies, threesome

Aveline clears her throat, one hand on the door. “Thank you, Hendyr. That will be all.”

Donnic smiles at her – Maker, she _wishes_ he wouldn’t look at her like that – and salutes, then walks away. “I still expect a report!” she yells at his back, then turns quickly, fleeing, furious with herself once again.

She slams the door behind her, leans heavily against it and sighs. _Idiot_ , she chastises herself bitterly, _just court him. It’s not that hard. You’ve done it before._ But that’s not true, is it? It was Wesley who courted her, her resisting every step of the way until her so-called friend had asked her if she wanted to die a virgin. _Even Andraste got laid and had babies!_ Mary-Lyn had teased, until Aveline had scooped up a handful of handy dung and thrown it in her general direction. Childish, certainly. But she remembers those days almost as if she was a child. So much of her Fereldan life feels lost to her now.

Maker, he is handsome though. Aveline pushes herself off the door and crosses the room slowly, making for her desk. Those lovely dark eyes, intense and kind. His easy smile. She’s completely oblivious to her own small smile as she thinks about Donnic.  He’s not married; hasn’t got anyone steady, she knows that much. Doesn’t visit the Rose very often, which is, frankly, a relief. After knowing Isabela for as long as she has, Aveline is well aware of her own naivete in the sexual sphere. She can’t help imagining that someone who visited the Rose regularly might be… rather more advanced. Not that that’s a bad thing. It’s just… different. But she’s never wanted more than what she and Wesley did – once a week, usually, a quick blowjob as he fingered her first, then a fuck. Her on her back. It never went too far outside their established norm, and for that she was grateful. She thinks.

Aveline makes a face at the paperwork on her desk and plops into the hard chair, feeling drained. Slowly, she pulls at the ties on her gauntlets and gloves, removing them, ready to write. Still her mind swirls. If there _was_ variation for… for _that_ … What kind of variation would she want? Just thinking of it makes a delicious shiver creep up the skin of her thighs, down her back and deep into the pit of her stomach. How would you even ask someone what they liked? How would she ever bring herself to tell her own fantasies? A flurry of images swirls through her mind, images of pinching fingers and the round, red marks of bites, of her hands on the sweet swell of a breast, of painted lips enclosing her own nipple, of someone thrusting something thick and unyielding into her from behind while she… oh. Aveline gasps, pushing the mental images away. No. Impossible. Utterly stupid and utterly impossible. A dream, that’s all.

But if she did… Aveline shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. The seam of her trousers presses close to her, and the thought of it parting her folds, of something, something _rubbing_ there, it makes her swallow and shift again. She parts her legs a little under the desk and looks at the door. Nobody ever comes in at this time of day. If she… maybe… She clenches her jaw and looks at her paperwork, pulling it toward her over the surface of the neatly arranged desk. No. _That’s_ a bad idea.

But…

She glances at the door again, her shoulders set in rigid lines of tension. _I’ll be quick_ , she thinks, _and the door is locked. Isn’t it? I’m sure I locked it_. Aveline squints at the latch and sees that, indeed, the bar is set in its correct position. There’s nothing out of the ordinary there – if one of her guards comes to call, they know she’s in the habit of locking her door when she’s doing paperwork. She nods, bites her lip and leans back into her chair.

With sure movements, she lifts the hem of her short kilt of mail, plucks at the laces on the boiled leather trousers she wears under it. It’s not as if she’s going to get completely naked, of course, but she needs a little more than friction, especially if she means to be quick. Her fingers are cold on her skin – the roughness of hair under them, then Aveline pushes her finger against her clit, rocking her hips against it. Delicious sensation wells up from the touch, and Aveline feels her toes curl inside her boots. Opening her legs a little wider around her hand, she presses again, pressing then releasing, creating a rhythm, moving her finger around and around in small, tight circles.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath through her mouth and sighs it out again. Her finger keeps circling. She thinks of Donnic, Maker that’s unprofessional, but what’s in her head he need never know about, so she thinks of him – what he might look with his eyes closed, sweat on his brow, lips parted, a deep pink flush on his chest. Is he a hairy man? She smiles, thinking of the dark hair on his knuckles as he grips his staff, whirling it overhead and slamming it into the...

No. No, no. That’s… Aveline stops the motion of her hand, opens eyes which she doesn’t remember closing. No. Hawke’s a… _pain in the arse_ , she thinks, and swallows hard. No. It’s one bad thing to fantasise about Donnic – quite another bad thing to fantasise about Hawke. Maker. _You can’t even have a wank without it turning to shit_ , she can almost _hear_ Isabela in her head, and her shoulders slump. Her hand is still down her pants though, so perhaps… perhaps she should…

Slowly, she breathes out and summons Donnic’s face into her mind again. She imagines the roughness of stubble as he kisses her neck, strong fingers around her wrists as he drives with all his force into her. Oh. Oh, _that’s_ better. Her heartbeat picks up, her hips find a gentle rhythm again, her clit growing plump, her fingers feeling the moisture begin to well around them.  And Maker, she can almost feel those fingers against her, in her, her own taste in her mouth as he thrusts them in, the white of the brands on them standing stark against his skin, all that white hair in his face as he... and...

Fuck. No. _No._ This is a disaster. _That’s Fenris, you arse,_ she thinks crossly, and pulls her hand out of her pants in disgust. She wipes her hand on her calf, feeling agitated. Her nipples tingle under all her armour and she rolls her shoulders, trying to rid herself of the sensation. Right. She takes a deep breath and pulls the paperwork toward her again.

But it only takes a few minutes before she realises she has read the same sentence several times over now. Once more, she sits back, scowling at the wall. This is ridiculous. _Perhaps I should let him go_ , she muses, then shakes her head, blowing out a breath. Donnic is a good man. He’s an honest, trustworthy guard. And if she wants to… _Maker, I want him to fuck me, I want to sit on his face and have him come on my tits and swallow his seed and I want him to bend me over this desk and… shit. Shit. This is bad. This is very bad._

Aveline sighs, ignoring the high pitched laughter from outside her office. She puts her forehead on her hand and leans heavily on her elbow, balancing it on the desk, staring at the words _dereliction of duty_ on one of her various reports to the Seneschal’s office. Dereliction of duty. Is it really that bad? No. It’s one little fantasy. Who is it going to hurt, really?

The laugh comes again and her door rattles, then opens. Aveline’s heart leaps in shock and she is halfway out of her chair before she’s had time to remember that her pants are undone. Hurriedly, she sits down again and asks Isabela, “What do you want?”

“Hello to you too, big…” Isabela’s eyes narrow, and she smirks. “Is it just my imagination, or do I detect a certain sweaty musk in the air?”

“What? No,” Aveline yelps, and then clears her throat and scowls. “No. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hello Aveline!” Merrill, oh no, not Merrill too, but here she is, beaming at Aveline before she cocks her head and looks worried. “Oh. We’re sorry! Were we interrupting something? Why’re you all red?”

“Kitten, would you close the door please?” Isabela purrs, and Aveline feels her stomach drop. Oh no. There’s… something… in the way that Isabela’s looking at her, something in her voice, which tells her she will never, ever hear the end of this. She _knows_. For an instant, Aveline slouches, feeling guilt swarm up her spine, knot in her stomach. Then, as Isabela raises an eyebrow at her, as Merrill quickly steps aside, closing the door softly behind her and locking it, she rallies.

“What?” Aveline demands. “Come on, out with it. Some of us are busy.”

“Thank you, kitten. And yes, b… Aveline. I can see that,” Isabela says. It sounds… weird. Not… not really like Isabela. Like… well, _like_ Isabela, but not dirty. It sounds… thoughtful.  Aveline clears her throat. “Yes,” Isabela says, “You do seem very busy. But I was wondering… is there anything we could do to give you a hand?”

Aveline cannot reply. She feels her eyelid twitch, her lips part a little. “I…” she begins, and Isabela glances at Merrill and smiles gently, then looks back at Aveline.

“Look,” Isabela sighs, “Hawke told us about how he’s going to the Hanged Man later to meet this Donnard or whoever…”

“Donnic,” Aveline corrects, a furious blush rising to her cheeks. “And he _told you_?”

“Well, no, we overheard him telling Anders, because you know those two lovebirds tell each other _everything_ ,” Isabela says, and looks at her nails. “Or Hawke tells Anders everything. Anyway, whatever, we just came by to see if perhaps you needed a hand working off some steam. But it appears you’ve started without us!”

Merrill beams delightedly. “Oh! Is _that_ why you’re all red?” she asks, clutching her hands together. “You don’t need to feel weird about it! It really will help, I’m sure, there’s nothing worse than carrying around all the sexual tension of a crush when…”

“It’s not a _crush_ ,” Aveline hisses, her ears, Maker, her whole _face_ feels like it’s on fire. She sighs hard. “Thank you for your offer,” she tells them, her teeth grinding together, “but I have a lot of work to do.”

“Sure you do,” Isabela sighs. “Don’t say we never try to do anything nice for you.”

Merrill looks crestfallen. “Oh, really? I…” she begins, and Isabela puts a hand on her shoulder.

“C’mon, kitten. We know when we’re not wanted. By the way, _Guard Captain_ , you’ve got to do something about that lock. It looks like some rogue’s been at it.” Isabela winks at her and Aveline scowls.

They are almost out the door when Aveline blurts: “Wait.”

Isabela stops, and says Merrill’s name. From out in the barracks, Merrill says, “What’s happened? Is everything alright?” and Aveline hears Isabela shush her. Aveline clenches her jaw, rolls her eyes at herself and mutters, “What… uh, what did you… uh… have in mind?”

“Sorry?” Isabela asks, her tone polite. She turns, one hand on the door and gazes levelly at Aveline, who frowns and blushes all over again. “What did you say?”

“What did you have in mind?” Aveline intones, staring at Isabela, hating her pale features on which her blush is so obvious. She blows out a hard breath and hastily says, “For the Maker’s sake, shut the door first.”

“That’s my girl,” Isabela chuckles, and ushers Merrill back inside. “But to tell you the truth, this was Merrill’s idea. We heard the thing about whoever-he-is, but... “ She shrugs and gestures to Merrill, who smiles. It’s a kind smile, Aveline thinks, and feels that guilt knot her stomach again. Perhaps she… hasn’t been that charitable to Merrill. She licks her lips, frowns a little and Merrill’s smile widens.

“Well, I don’t really know. But I do know that when Isabela was telling us about her and Carver, you remember, that time in the Hanged Man?”

Aveline nods, her frown deepening.

Merrill bites her lip and continues, “Well, I was telling Isabela about how it made _me_ feel, listening to her tell that story, and then I was thinking about all the things _I’d_ like Carver to do to me, but it’s quite hard to talk to him about that stuff? And then I thought of you, because it seems to me that you’re quite similar in that respect? It’s not a bad thing,” she tells Aveline, who remains taciturn. Merrill glances at Isabela for a moment, and Isabela arches an eyebrow.

“Go on,” she says softly, and Merrill smiles.

“Alright,” she says, looking back at Aveline and taking a deep breath. “It doesn’t have to be here. I mean, Izzy has a place in mind. No-one knows about it. And if you want to watch us, or us to watch you, or you want to talk about what you want to do to Donnic or him to do to you, then we can do that. You just have to tell us, Aveline. Obviously, we’d have to be comfortable, same as you, but…” Her eyes widen and she smiles hopefully, “We just want to help.”

_Us to watch you, you to watch us. You just have to tell us_. Aveline stares at Merrill, still frowning, and Merrill looks at her, quite calmly. Her heart hammers in her chest, and Aveline rubs her wrist absentmindedly, then swallows. Her throat feels very dry. She tries to clear it, then looks at Isabela, who is looking idly at her fingernails. Something stirs in Aveline’s guts, and she clenches her fist on the tabletop, her look changing to a glare. “Is this is a joke?” Aveline asks her sharply, and Isabela looks up.

“No,” she says simply, “no joke. Believe it or not, Aveline, we do actually like you.” She rolls her eyes and puts her hands on her hips. “Against my better judgement, I might add.”

Merrill grins. “So?” she asks, “What do you think?”

“I think…” Aveline starts, then has no more. She clears her throat, clenches her fists. What harm would it do? A few hours – an afternoon. _No_ , she thinks, _I have too much work to do…_

_Sweetheart,_ Wesley whispers in the back of her mind. She can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes her smile too. It was exactly what he used to do when he was trying to cajole her into taking some time for herself, or for them. _Sweetheart_. That one word. Aveline sighs. “Alright. But… where can we go?”

“Don’t worry!” Merrill pipes up, standing straighter to look at Isabela, who shrugs and grins. “We’ve got a place all planned out!”

* * *

“No,” Aveline says, pulling back abruptly. “ _No_. It’s…”

Isabela sighs. “No-one will see,” she says tiredly. “We’re going up the back stairs, Maker’s hairy arse.”

“It’s the _Rose_ , Isabela,” Aveline hisses. Merrill tsks.

“Where did you think we would go?” she asks. Her tone is quite pleasant, but under it, Aveline is fairly certain she can detect a note of frustration as well. “I told you. Izzy keeps a room here.”

Aveline makes a noise of disgust deep in her throat, and rolls her eyes. Isabela’s jaw works and she shakes her head, looking angry. “Fuck you. Have you ever _tried_ to sleep in the Hanged Man?” She takes a deep breath, obviously trying to control herself. “Look. The Rose has doors that lock, and better than that flimsy piece of shit you’ve got on _your_ door. It has more knives under mattresses than I’ve ever cared to count. And nothing ever really goes down there because there’s always Guards and Templars hanging about. The Templars keep the Guard in check, and vice versa. It’s neutral territory. Everybody’s happy.”

Aveline takes a deep breath and blows it out again. “Well we can’t stand here,” she mutters, feeling put out, her desire well and truly quenched. Still, in for a copper, in for a sovereign. Once more, she clenches her jaw and gestures with an abrupt head jerk, toward the Blooming Rose. Isabela rolls her eyes and sighs, then begins to move forward.

* * *

Aveline narrows her eyes. “It’s… pretty,” she says, and Isabela scoffs.

“Yes,” she says disparagingly, “all these bloody ruffs all over everything. Smells nice though, a damn sight nicer than the Hanged Man. At least you can smell the sea from up here.”

Merrill moves into the room and plops down on the bed, smiling at Aveline. Isabela walks purposefully toward the latticed window, puts her hand to the curtain. Aveline can feel her lips tense, her throat close up around the word which wants to come – _wait_. Her gaze falls on Merrill, who looks at her curiously. “So?” she asks, “What do you want to do? Can you tell us?”

“I…” Aveline says, then stops. She looks everywhere except at Merrill and Isabela, feeling awkward and virginal. _Sweetheart_ , she hears again in the back of her mind and closes her eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “I’ve… I’ve not… had a lot of experience with this.”

Mentally, she braces for a cutting remark from Isabela or some sympathy from Merrill – but nothing comes. Slowly, she opens her eyes, though she keeps them downcast. When she finally raises them, she sees that Isabela has moved slightly to light a lamp in the corner. It casts a lovely velvety glow over the room – it’s only little, this room, nothing like the other rooms she’s seen at the Rose. It feels… lived in, not a scene from a play. Aveline blinks and Isabela looks at her. “What?” she asks, her voice low, even as her lips curl slightly into a smile. “We’re not here to tease you, Aveline. It’s like Merrill said. Just tell us what you want – though I might have to entertain myself if you just want to go on about Derric.”

“Donnic,” Aveline corrects, but there is no bite to it. It doesn’t feel as she expected this would. There’s nothing even remotely depraved about this, not so far. It all feels so... _natural_ . “Alright,” she says quietly, “I… I suppose I’ll… uh… oh, Maker’s _sake._ ”

Abruptly, she shakes her head. This is ridiculous. She clenches her jaw and begins untying the cords which bind her armour together. “Oh!” Merrill says, bouncing on the bed, grinning, “Good! Can I too?”

Aveline grunts and Isabela laughs. “Sounds like a yes to me, kitten.”

Aveline ignores them. She stacks her armour neatly on the bureau, its functional steel glinting in the light of the lamp, turning it rose-gold in colour. Once she is down to her undershirt and smalls, Aveline looks up. Isabela is, no surprises, completely naked. She beams at Aveline and raises an eyebrow. “Well? Like what you see, big girl?”

“Oh, _Creators_ ,” Merrill says from inside her shirt, arms still up over her head. “My hair is caught on these mail bits! Someone help!”

Immediately, Aveline goes to her, Isabela not far behind. Together, they help Merrill struggle free – by the time they are finished untangling her from her jerkin, both Merrill and Isabela are laughing, and Aveline is smiling at them. “Ridiculous,” she huffs, and shakes her head, looking down at Merrill. “Whatever made you take it all off at once?”

“I didn’t want to be left behind,” Merrill tells her, and Aveline tsks.

“We wouldn’t,” Aveline tells her sternly. “As if we ever would.”

“Yes, kitten,” Isabela smiles and sits next to her. “You’re far too pretty to leave behind.”

She leans forward then, one hand going to Merrill’s breast, her thumb running over Merrill’s nipple. Aveline watches, desire welling up inside her, rolling through her, making her stomach tighten and her fingers tingle. Isabela wraps the other hand around Merrill’s waist, pulling her tighter and kisses her neck, dark hair falling over her shoulder. “Oh, Izzy,” Merrill breathes, then reaches backward until her hand comes into contact with Aveline’s leg.

Aveline tenses involuntarily. She pants, mouth open just a little, watching as Isabela fondles Merrill, feeling as if she is both about to die of awkwardness and implode with frustration. Her cunt is starting to feel uncomfortably swollen, too tight not to touch, so she brushes her fingers along the slit, just through her underwear, and gasps.

“Siddown, big girl,” Isabela tells her, lifting her mouth for a moment from Merrill’s shoulder. “Talk to us.”

Aveline swallows hard. Slowly, she sits – Merrill adjusts her hand until her arm encircles Aveline’s waist. It must be uncomfortable to sit like that, Aveline thinks, frowning a little; Merrill is twisted awkwardly as Isabela continues to kiss and fondle her. “Hang on,” Aveline mutters and shifts so that her body is closer to Merrill’s – but that doesn’t seem quite right either. She shifts, takes a breath, and almost reconsiders before she blurts, “Can I sit with my legs around you, Merrill?”

“Yes, oh yes please,” Merrill murmurs quietly, and over her shoulder, Isabela raises her eyes to Aveline. They look at each other for a moment, then Isabela smiles slightly and goes back to kissing her way around Merrill’s body.

Aveline shifts again, this time with more purpose. Quickly, she gets up on her knees on the rather large bed, the feather-filled coverlet giving way pleasantly under her weight. Then she moves back to a sitting position, her legs parted around Merrill’s back, Isabela’s weight warm on her right, her left foot on the floor. Slowly, hesitantly really, Aveline puts her arms around Merrill’s naked waist and her burning cheek against her neck. “Maker,” she murmurs, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

There is nothing but the gentle noises of Isabela’s mouth on Merrill’s skin, the sigh of their breathing. Aveline closes her eyes and clears her throat. “I don’t know if I love him,” she murmurs. “But Maker, I want him. I… I don’t think I’ve felt like this in a long time. I… want him to… to do things to me that… that I can’t remember even wanting with Wesley. Things that… I don’t know if I do want them, not really but… but Maker, they feel right.”

She sighs, a little more emboldened. “I… want him to lick me. My… you know. And, and I want someone to watch that, watch us, maybe… maybe put their fingers… oh, this is stupid.”

“Not stupid,” Isabela murmurs, “hot. C’mon Aveline. Tell us.”

“P–plea– _please_ ,” Merrill stutters, and Aveline realises that she is moving back and forward, thrusting her hips forward in a gentle rhythm. Aveline exhales a breath, grinning a little bit, feeling her confidence grow.

“Alright… uh, oh. Someone… watching, with their fingers… or… something, in my mouth. Maybe… maybe not fingers, maybe…”

“A cock?” Isabela asks, and Aveline snorts.

“Yes,” she mutters, cross with herself for not just _saying_ it. “A cock. Or…” She feels the heat creep up her neck, burn across her cheeks. “One of those things, you know…”

“A strap-on?” Maker, she can _hear_ the amused astonishment in Isabela’s voice. But as is the case so often between them, Isabela’s mockery only serves to goad Aveline forward.

“Yes, a _strap-on_ , Maker’s sake. A _big_ one. Or… or maybe he’d fuck me from behind and I’d put… whoever’s… whatever… in my mouth, suck on it that way. Or I mean, we could, you know, you could fuck me like that and I’d lick Merrill and…”

“ _Please_ ,” Merrill groans and struggles in Aveline’s arms. In surprise, Aveline lifts her cheek from Merrill’s neck and releases her. Swiftly, Merrill turns around and kisses Aveline, putting her arms around Aveline’s neck. Isabela laughs – a joyous sound, and Aveline is lost.

It’s really just sensation after that. The feel of Merrill’s soft lips against hers, her tongue in Aveline’s mouth. And then they are laying her gently out on the bed, she’s letting them do it, Isabela’s sure fingers, Merrill’s whispered instructions, she’s up on her knees, someone is making a sort of odd _whining_ noise, and Maker, oh Maker, she’s so _wet_ , Merrill – Merrill? Maybe it’s her, it could be anyone, Aveline doesn’t care anymore – her fingers are in her mouth and they’re moving, thrusting gently in and out and she can taste the elfroot on them, something which smells like flowers. Isabela murmurs something and Aveline agrees without thinking – “Yes, _fuck_ , yes,” the words are out before she even registers that she hasn’t heard. But it hardly matters because there is something cool and blunt against her cunt now, and Aveline cries out at the contact, arching her hips back as Merrill squirms from underneath her, smiling up at her before she props herself up on her elbows. “It’s alright,” she soothes. “It’s alright, Creators, Aveline, you’re so lovely, so very lovely, please will you? Can you..?” And she opens her legs for Aveline, Aveline bends toward her, opening her mouth for Merrill, a loud groan escaping her as Isabela works her way into her. And her taste, oh, oh Maker, it is so fine, Aveline doesn’t know what she’s doing, she’s led by blind instinct alone.

And oh, when Merrill’s hands go into her hair, when Isabela’s gripping her hips tight and _filling_ her, Aveline can think of nothing else. Just the sensations, the smells, the heat of their bodies together, it wipes all worry, all of everything right away. She comes again and again, each time bringing cries to her lips – Merrill’s voice in her ears, Isabela’s, Maker, the _heat_ of this, the wonder of it. She’d never known she could feel like this. Never in a million lifetimes.

She finally comes back to herself in a tangle of limbs, sticky with sweat and spent. Someone murmurs something, and there is light laughter. “Oh, Aveline,” a voice she knows mutters, “who knew that would be what the big girl needed?”

More laughter, gentle, and then there is a hand in her hair, stroking it. Aveline groans and sighs, then asks, “Let’s never leave.”

“Oh, Creators, that _would_ be lovely,” Merrill murmurs, and sighs. “But who would look after those silly boys of ours then?” She giggles and asks, “Do you want to come down to the Hanged Man with us, Aveline? See what kind of mischief Hawke’s making for you?”

“No,” replies Aveline lazily, “I want to stay here. With you two.”

Isabela laughs. “Donnic will be there,” she says, and sits up, pushing her hair off her face. Aveline blinks and frowns at her, then says, “You remembered his name.”

“Yeah,” Isabela grins, “wonders will never cease. C’mon big girl. Now you’ve gotten back behind the oar, let’s go find you a rowboat.”

And with that, Aveline sighs, and smiles, and reaches for her clothes.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, or eager for sexy spoilers? Leave a comment below or send [tsurai an ask](http://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


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